


Hearthstone

by Doublematch, MilesHibernus



Series: Warcraft Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - World of Warcraft Fusion, Battle for Azeroth, Crossover, Disordered Eating, Distortion of canon for fun and (lack of) profit, Future chapters will include:, It doesn't matter what world they're in, Like a pair of effing conifers, M/M, OFCs - Freeform, OMCs - Freeform, Pining, So if any of that is not your thing, Stalking, You can't make Azeroth realistic, but we're doing our best, don't get invested, mention of past torture, so much pining, they just love each other, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 53
Words: 166,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21600673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doublematch/pseuds/Doublematch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: Azeroth is at war.Not the best time for a human and a blood elf to strike up a friendship.Then again, when is it ever?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Warcraft Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888567
Comments: 342
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you familiar with the BFA timeline may note that we've fudged the timing on Kul Tiras re-entering the Alliance a bit. We're also playing around with game mechanics to suit the story, so don't @ us about how it doesn't 'really' work that way.
> 
> We have not tagged for Major Character Death because, while some major characters do die, it doesn't stick--they are people for whom death is not necessarily permanent.
> 
> Last but not least, he's not Ezra _Fell_ because 'fel' has a specific meaning in WoW, and it's not one a human is likely to want in their surname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely illustration in this chapter is by haleygirl897. [Check out her Instagram!](https://www.instagram.com/harleygirl897/)

Crowley walked the patrol route dutifully, but his heart wasn’t in it. The bluecoats (he was reliably informed that Alliance soldiers still wore blue) were on the run, though it was an open question how long they’d stay that way; Darkshore was solidly Alliance territory, and the kaldorei weren’t willing to let it go. Teldrassil, the Crown of the Earth, still burned, but that didn’t deter them. Control of the area had changed hands several times already and he had no confidence it was settled this time.

He turned north along the shore, staying in the shadow of the edge of the woods. The wrecked docks of Auberdine came into view; the little port had been demolished in the Cataclysm.

Crowley hadn’t seen the Cataclysm. He’d been in the Vault of the Wardens.

They’d let him out when the Legion had come back in force, him and all the other Illidari. But now the Legion was defeated, and he had no purpose. Fighting over this new power, this _azerite_ , felt wrong.

As he drew closer to the ruins, Crowley realised there was someone huddled out on the dock, as far out as one could go without risking a fall into the dark water. Someone in the robes of a spellcaster.

A human. And he was crying.

Crowley walked out onto the dock himself, placing his feet carefully to avoid making noise, but he might as well not have bothered; the human showed no sign of noticing him until Crowley had knelt just behind him and set the edge of one glaive against his neck. “What are you doing here?” he asked, as the human stiffened in shock.

Somewhat to his surprise, the man replied, and in Orcish as well. “I’m crying. What does it look like?”

Crowley had to admire a person who’d be sarcastic with a weapon at his throat. “Your comrades are leaving. You should too.” He took the glaive away and got to his feet. After a moment the human stood as well and turned. He was stocky, four or five fingers shorter than Crowley himself, and his hair stood out around his head like feathers. Crowley had an uncomfortable feeling of being studied.

If he’d been surprised before, he was shocked when the next words out of the human’s mouth were Thalassian. And with a decent accent, no less. “At least I have a home to go back to. Boralus still stands, not like—” He waved in the direction of the sullen hulk of the smouldering Tree. Anger filled his voice. “This is an abomination!”

“Yes,” said Crowley simply. “And it’s not safe for you, so go home. What _are_ you doing out here, anyway?”

“The Alliance called, and I answered,” said the human, more quietly. “I’m just a scholar, a priest, they only called me because I’m an immortal soul.”

Crowley shrugged. “Healers are always of use.” Healers for whom death wasn’t necessarily permanent only more so.

“I suppose,” said the priest. “I’m Ezra. Ezra Fallwater.”

“Crowley,” he replied.

“That’s, ah, an unusual name.”

“I changed it when I swore to Illidan,” said Crowley, amused. “Wanted something that didn’t mean anything. In Thalassian at least, someone told me it sounds like the Common word for _korkra_.” He slung his glaive over his back. “Go home, priest. Do you have a hearthstone?”

“Yes.”

“Then use it, before someone else sees us and wonders why I’m not taking you back to base.”

Ezra, digging in a belt pouch, paused. “Ah. Yes. Why aren’t you, if I may ask?”

“You’re a caster, I’d have to gag you, tie your hands. I’m in no mood to go to that much trouble.”

“Of course,” said Ezra. “Well. I suppose I owe you a favour.” He pulled the hearthstone out at last and started rolling it in his palms. Crowley took a step back to avoid the tingling thrill of the power it emitted, and a moment later Ezra vanished.

Crowley picked his way back to shore, and resumed his patrol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **kaldorei:** Night elves, members of the Alliance. Until recently lived in the giant tree Teldrassil, which was set on fire in the first major conflict of the war.  
>  **sin'dorei:** Blood elves, members of the Horde.  
>  **Illidari:** Demon hunters. Led by Illidan Stormrage, absorbed the powers of demons in order to fight the demonic Burning Legion, which is now defeated.  
>  **glaives:** The signature weapons of the Illidari; basically picture dual-wielding bat'leths. They are not real-world practical in _any_ way.  
>  **Languages:** The lingua franca of the Horde is Orcish; the Alliance speaks Common. Blood elves, of which Crowley is one, speak Thalassian. In-game there's no mechanism to learn languages other than those your character has by default, and there are only very limited cases in which members of both factions speak the same language(s).


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few weeks, Ezra spent a surprising amount of time thinking about his encounter with the demon hunter. The world was at war, and kindness was rare enough from either side, never mind from someone he was supposed to fight. Crowley could have killed him easily, captured him with only a little more trouble—no matter what the elf had said—and Ezra couldn’t come up with a reason why he hadn’t. It was a puzzle, and Ezra never could resist a puzzle.

There was no kindness here today. Ezra reined his horse around, away from the sounds of yet more fighting. The broad plains of the Arathi Highlands were under Alliance control, for now, and he had no desire to go hunt elementals. He’d done what he could for the wounded the last few days, and all he wanted was some quiet.

Galson’s Lode ran under a hill, and on top of it was a small grove; it was quiet and out of the way, and Ezra liked it. The ride out calmed him, and he decided he’d take an hour or two to sit under the trees and read. But as he approached the crest of the hill, he realised there was someone there already. Someone standing in a posture that suggested readiness to attack; with a reflex he’d only recently developed, Ezra called his shield. As the protective magic shimmered into being around him, he took in more details, and blinked in surprise.

The person standing in the grove was tall, with flame-red hair and his eyes bound. Sin’dorei, Illidari. _Crowley_.

He wasn’t wearing his cuirass, but he held his glaives defensively. Ezra glanced around and saw a sleek black hawkstrider, its reins tied to a low branch. It cocked its head at him curiously. He dismounted and went forward. “I’m not here to fight,” he called.

It’s hard to read the expressions of a person whose eyes are covered, but Ezra could see the moment Crowley recognized him, and the surprise. “You again,” the elf said. He slumped against the tree and stabbed his glaives into the earth. “Are you celebrating, priest? It was a glorious victory.” His mouth twisted. “There were three children living in Hammerfall. I don’t know if their parents got them out.”

“I didn’t know,” said Ezra, appalled. “May the Light guard them. Is that why you’re still here?” He looped his reins over another branch; the horse was well-trained, but better safe than sorry. Then he turned, and the oddness of Crowley’s posture really hit him: the elf was hurt, and badly. “Oh, dear me, look at you!” he said, and reached out a hand without thinking.

“What are you—ah!” Startled, Crowley yelped as the healing energy flowed into him; Ezra knew from experience that magical healing could feel very odd. When it was done, Crowley pushed away from the tree and stood straight. For a few seconds there was silence between them, nothing but the sound of the wind in the branches and Ezra’s horse nibbling the grass at its hooves. “Well. Should I say thank you?”

Ezra chuckled and said, “Better not, I suppose.” He sat, and opened his pack, taking out the well-wrapped cheese and a small bottle of wine. “But you didn’t answer my question,” he said as he unwrapped his cheese—Dalaran blue, he quite loved it—and broke off a piece, which he offered to the clearly baffled elf.

"I'm still here because I lost my pack," said Crowley slowly. "The pack with my hearthstone and all my potions in it. And I don't know if you've ever tried to ride a hawkstrider with bad ribs, but I don't recommend it. They're hard enough on the buttocks when you're healthy." He made a considering face. "Better than horses, but that's not saying much." After another moment he sat as well, and plucked the cheese from Ezra’s fingers. He was careful not to touch skin to skin, and Ezra wondered why. “You opening that?” the elf asked, jerking his chin at the bottle.

“Oh, would you?” said Ezra, and handed it over. Crowley looked down at it for a moment like he wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with it, and then started prying at the cork with a fingernail that was longer than it should have been. “Is there a reward for returning this pack of yours?” Ezra asked, with a smile. He wasn’t quite sure what Illidari could see, but Crowley would be able to hear it in his voice, at least. “It sounds like a truly epic quest.”

"Are you offering to help me find my pack? I know your lot—" It wasn’t clear whether Crowley meant humans, priests, or the Alliance in general "—like to talk about love for all living creatures but you have noticed I'm sin’dorei? Kaldorei don't come with hair this color." He gestured at his head, then returned to the bottle.

“Oh, are you?” said Ezra, with a perfectly straight face. “Good thing, since I’m speaking Thalassian. If you were a night elf in disguise it would be dreadfully awkward.”

Crowley’s lips twitched, but then the cork came out with a soft pop and he sniffed the opened bottle. His eyebrows went up. "Now that's a hell of a thing to be hauling around a war zone. I didn't know humans could make decent wine." He lifted the bottle as if to drink, then paused and offered it back.

“War or not, I have standards,” said Ezra, and drank. His sleeve was clean so he wiped the mouth of the bottle and held it out. This was not the kind of peace he’d been expecting when he rode out, but it was pleasant, and a little more so for the melancholy knowledge that the peace could be shattered at any moment.

Crowley looked at the bottle, or at least Ezra assumed he did from the angle of his head, and said carefully, “Do you really want me to get fel all over your wine?”

“I can do without this bottle,” said Ezra. He set it down midway between them.

Crowley turned his head, looking out over the plains around the little rise. “I just need to get out of Arathi, and now that I can ride without wanting to die I can do that. Unless the bluecoats, your lot I mean, are they blockading? No great desire to be a prisoner of war, no offense."

Ezra grimaced. “They aren’t blockading, I don’t think, but...they aren’t taking many prisoners either, and even for immortal souls, discorporation is quite unpleasant. Probably best to just make a run for it. If you’re sure you don’t want to try and find your bag.” He thought about it for a moment. “I could look, and if I find it, there are goblins who trade with both sides.” He nodded, pleased with the plan. “Yes, I will do that. I owe you a favour, from Darkshore. I’m sure you must have things you value in it.”

"Oh, but my kind doesn’t care about such things. I sacrificed everything, what have you given?" said Crowley sardonically. "Bunch of over-dramatic buggers that we are. It's been a damned war, everyone's lost something." There was a long pause and he sighed. "If you owed me anything you paid it back by healing my ribs. Don't put yourself in harm's way looking for—for things that I can replace."

Ezra knew that he had the kind of face that showed his emotions and had long since given up trying to stop it; he wondered if Crowley could see the sadness that fell over him. “Healing is just what I do. And, dear fellow, I know the story of you Illidari. You did sacrifice everything, for your home’s sake, just to be tossed aside and imprisoned after. It was appalling.” He opened his pack again and fished for the book he’d brought. By great good fortune—or possibly because he'd been puzzling over Crowley—it was in Thalassian. It was also a little embarrassing, a slightly spicy romance, but Ezra refused to be ashamed of his own tastes in reading material. “Everyone should have something he holds precious. Here, take this to pass the time.” He offered the book, and once again Crowley just looked at it for a moment.

"I don't read books," said Crowley softly, and then seemed to realise what he’d said and smirked. "It's the eyes, you know. Get all—" He wiggled his fingers in what was probably meant to be an illustrative manner.

“Oh,” said Ezra, crestfallen. “That’s...a shame.”

Crowley shrugged and said, "I should get moving, in case they decide to sweep for stragglers. And you've got to get back to...Boralus, was it?" He mangled the pronunciation a bit. "But I will take that." ‘That’ being the wine bottle, which he scooped up as he got to his feet.

Ezra packed away the rest of the cheese and got out his second bottle. “Then I insist that you take her sister as well, for the road,” he said. Crowley, bending to pick up his armour, glanced at him in surprise.

The elf worked his cuirass back on—every time he watched someone put on armour, Ezra was more pleased that he didn’t wear the stuff—put his glaives on his back, and stowed the wine bottles in his bird’s saddlebag.

“I suppose I should get back to the keep,” said Ezra. “They’ll want me on patrol in case any more of your people are left. Head for Thoradin’s Wall, the patrols are more sparse that way. I will keep an eye out for your bag, and if I find it the goblins can get it to you, I’m sure.”

“I’ll check, but who knows?” said Crowley. “You might as well just hold on to it. I have a feeling this won’t be the last time we meet.”

 _I hope not,_ Ezra thought, and was so startled at it that he nearly stuttered. “Mind how you go,” he managed.

“You as well, priest,” said Crowley, and swung into the saddle. The hawkstrider looked a bit awkward in motion, but there was no denying it was fast, arrowing off in the direction of the distant horizon-smudge of the wall marking the western boundary of the Highlands. Ezra watched until the gentle roll of the land hid the retreating figure from sight, and then went over to his horse. The animal nosed at him and he petted it absently, wondering what exactly had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hawkstrider:** Ostrich-sized, hawk-headed riding bird. The species-specific mount of blood elves.
> 
> I would just like to say that I've only read _Slow Show_ in the past 48 hours, and the fact that Crowley's character refers to Avery's as "priest" is purely a coincidence.


	3. Chapter 3

The gloom under the twisted trees was unsettling, even for Crowley.

He knew how to fight demons. These witches, though, they were another thing altogether. Their wicker minions didn’t even bleed, gave no indication of injury until they fell over; he didn’t like it.

Not that he liked being in Kul Tiras at all. Crowley hadn’t yet found anyone to whom he felt safe saying it, but privately he thought the whole thing, the whole new war, was madness. Fighting over the life-blood of the planet while she (Bronzebeard always said ‘she’, anyway) bled slowly to death...Crowley hadn’t gone to war against the Legion so that idiot mortals could let the world die.

But the Alliance had made inroads into Zandalar, and the Banshee Queen’s right hand wanted to be sure the Horde didn’t fall behind, so Crowley had come to Kul Tiras. _Drustvar_ , this part was called, and a dreary place it was.

He heard hooves, and found a deeper shadow to hide in and let the rider pass. It wouldn’t do to be spotted.

The rider’s robes stood out against the dark as if he moved in a beam of light that didn’t hit anything else—and Crowley recognized him. That human again, of all possible people, and before Crowley really understood what he was doing he was stepping out of his shadow and calling, “Ezra!” Just loud enough for the priest to hear, he hoped; the last thing they needed was drawing the witches’ attention. As soon as the word was out of his mouth Crowley cursed himself for a fool. There was no benign or even neutral reason for him to be here, and Ezra would know that.

But he couldn’t have _not_ done it, and he wasn’t sure why.

Even at this distance he could see the way the priest jumped, which was fair enough. He turned his horse and started in Crowley’s direction, and when he was within speaking distance said, “Crowley! Did you get your pack back?” He drew up nearby and dismounted.

“Yes, I—” said Crowley, and that was when he realised that the sounds of the forest had changed around them. His attention snapped off Ezra and to the thicket behind him. It _moved_. “Blast it,” he growled, and pushed past the priest.

A wicker behemoth unfolded from the underbrush, followed by several smaller stick-creatures and no fewer than three witches. Crowley wished fleetingly that he’d worn the slightly heavier armour for this trip, but there was nothing for it; he charged, and leapt, and felt the change take him as he landed. The surge of fel energy made him feel faintly sick, as it always did. The wicker creatures weren’t smart enough to be afraid of his demon-form, but at least it made him tougher. He wouldn’t have taken on a group this large by choice, but it wasn’t as if he could let the priest be turned into stuffing for a burning wickerman.

One of the witches shrieked something at him in Common. Crowley whirled to slash a glaive at her, which left him open to one of the smaller familiars. Its jaws closed on his calf and he batted it away, but the wound would slow him—

—and warm magic rolled over him, and in its wake he was unwounded. Ezra. Crowley grinned, a baring of teeth, and swung again.

Having someone at your back who can make sure no injuries last more than a second or two is very, very helpful; there were enough attackers that it took a few minutes, but eventually the last mass of animate branches creaked to a halt and fell into a pile of sticks and bones and twine. Crowley stood panting for a few seconds, and jammed his glaives into the earth so he could check the witches’ pockets. If they hadn’t wanted to have their coin taken, they shouldn’t have been going around attacking people.

Ezra walked up behind him. Crowley straightened and rounded on the human. “What do you think you’re doing? It’s dangerous out here!”

Ezra seemed taken aback for a moment and Crowley felt a flash of shame at letting his temper get the better of him. But the priest recovered and said, “There’s been word of the Horde in this area. I was looking for anyone who might need help.” Then he stopped and sighed. “It’s you, isn’t it.”

“I’m scouting, I don’t kill people for fun!” Crowley hissed, trying to keep his voice down but still communicate his urgency. “You came out here _looking_ for the Horde? For the love of your Light, Ezra! Do you want to be discorporated? I’ve done it, you know, it isn’t pleasant!”

Ezra drew himself up and said firmly, “Yes, I do know. Some of your _compatriots_ can be very inventive, and it’s always so horrid recovering afterwards. But that doesn’t change the fact that there might have been someone who needed my help.”

Crowley made a wordless, angry noise and ran his hands back through his hair in agitation.

"And there was," said Ezra, as if that were the end of it.

"Right," said Crowley. "Where's the nearest—town, village, is there even any civilization in this sodding forest?" He’d focus on that, instead of Ezra saying _always so horrid_ , as if he’d been discorporated _more than once._

“Well, yes,” Ezra replied. He sounded puzzled. “An hour or so that way. Really, you needn’t be so worried. I can fight if the need arises.” He turned back to his horse and opened a saddlebag. Crowley was getting used to watching this absurd human dig through bags. After a moment Ezra emerged with two bottles and held them up. “These are from Stormwind, the Gallina family. Would you like some?”

“Would I—” Crowley took a deep breath, held it, let it out again. “I’ll drink your wine, _if_ we can do it while we’re heading for this town. Agreed?”

“Certainly not!” said Ezra. “I’m hardly going to lead you to a target, Crowley, and I’m surprised you would ask.”

“I told you I’m scouting,” said Crowley, attempting not to care what the priest thought of him. “And I don’t hurt civilians.” He held out a hand. After a moment Ezra sighed and put one of the bottles into it.

“Don’t make me regret this,” said Ezra. For approximately the millionth time since joining the Illidari, Crowley wished he still had the ability to roll his eyes.

In the interests of keeping Crowley hidden they walked beside the road rather than on it, Ezra leading his horse. After a few quiet minutes Crowley said, “I got my pack back. It’s. Well. This time I will say thank you.”

Ezra chuckled and said, “Oh, it was nothing. I had fun, doing something that the fate of the world didn’t depend on for once. Since the war started everything has been life or death. It’s terribly wearing.”

“This war is a fool’s game,” said Crowley, but that wasn’t something they should discuss. “This isn’t the part of Kul Tiras you’re from, is it?” he asked instead.

Ezra hesitated for long enough to make it clear that he recognized the attempt to change the subject, but he replied, “No, I’ve always lived in Boralus. That’s in Tiragarde Sound, east of here.” They talked about nothing in particular as they went—well, mostly Ezra talked, but Crowley didn’t mind.

Finally they crested a ridge, overlooking a long slope down to a village, and beyond it the sea. Crowley could smell the salt in the air. “Well, there it is,” Ezra said. “Falconhurst, if you need to know.”

“It’s not what I was meant to be scouting, but Blightcaller—” Even he could hear the scornful twist he’d put on the name, and that wasn’t a good habit to get into. “—will have to make do. And—listen, you need to keep a better eye out. Your Light won’t help you if you’re dead before you know there’s danger. Now go on, and no more looking for trouble, yeah?”

“Wait, were you...Crowley, were you escorting me?”

“Someone has to,” said Crowley, trying not to smile at Ezra’s indignant tone.

“Well, that’s very kind of you, but unnecessary, I assure you.”

Crowley was opening his mouth to reply when a rush of wings passed low over their heads. They both ducked reflexively as a gryphon flew down towards the village, and Ezra made as if to push Crowley behind a tree before realising it would be pointless. “Never mind me, it’s dangerous for you to be so close to the village,” he said.

“I should be going anyway,” said Crowley, feeling oddly reluctant. Having learnt his lesson the last time, he kept his hearthstone in a belt pouch now; he fished it out and held it up. “Back to Dazar’alor, it’s about time to check in.”

“You really are a hero of Azeroth,” said Ezra, and he sounded entirely too sincere for Crowley’s comfort.

“Don’t start talking like Khadgar, priest, it’s rubbish,” he said. “At this rate, I think it’s safe to say I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll carry some good wine, just in case,” said Ezra, smiling, and Crowley concentrated on his hearthstone rather than think about it.

As he faded into nothing, Crowley thought he heard words: _I do hope so_. But that must have been his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Muradin Bronzebeard:** Also known as the Diamond King, or The Speaker. Formerly king of the Ironforge dwarves, but he got transformed in a diamond statue--long story. Now, he is back, all shiny, and speaks for the planet Azeroth. He sends people to deal with bad things related to azerite, a power source that has been erupting since the Big Bad wounded the world at the end of the fight against the Legion.
> 
>  **Talking like Khadgar:** Archmage Khadgar is the NPC who starts the tradition of referring to the player character as "champion", "hero", etc, as the character increases in level and gets involved with world-shaking events. Yr obd't svt thinks that this is terribly, terribly silly.


	4. Chapter 4

“C’mon, Ezra, it’s just azerite recovery. It won’t take long,” the druid insisted. Her purple braid jumped on her shoulder as she walked to the docks, bouncing on her toes with nervous energy.

Ezra leant away from her tug on his wrist. “Maka, I have things to do," he said in her native tongue. He enjoyed the chance to practice his languages.

She stopped walking and said seriously, “You’ve got to stop going around alone looking for people to heal. It was the blessing of Elune that the Horde didn’t spot you the last time.”

Ezra caught her gaze with his. Her eyes had gone black after Tyrande’s ritual, the mark of her desire for vengeance, and it hurt him to see. “It’s not like you to be so bloodthirsty,” he said. “Going into Horde territory is a taunt, and you know it.”

Makavi huffed indignantly. “I want vengeance, and I will have it. But Azeroth comes first. The balance of nature must be preserved. Now I’m going, and you’re coming with me.” Her form shimmered and wavered into a white doe. He always thought it was strange to hear her voice coming from her animal forms. “Get on, we’ll go faster this way. The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.”

Ezra patted her shoulder. “I’ll come, but no Horde-chasing. Kneel down for me, please, my knees aren’t what they used to be.”

The trip to Nazmir was swift enough, courtesy of the portal a bored Kirin Tor apprentice was charged with maintaining, and there were at least a few gryphon-masters scattered about in hidden corners. Ezra didn’t much care for flying; it was always cold. There was no denying it was fast, though. They landed in an outpost Ezra hadn’t visited before, and as they did he realised that he could _see_ the afflicted area, just down the slope from where they stood; jets of uncontrolled power spouted from the ground at random, and agitated elementals wandered aimlessly. Makavi dusted herself off and said, “I can’t _wait_ to be able to fly on my own wings around here. Everything is so disrupted.” She strode in the direction of the swarming elementals and Ezra hurried to catch up.

“Maka, you promised me no Horde-hunting! We’ll have to fight if they see us, just to keep the outpost hidden.”

She glanced at him a little sheepishly, shrugged, and concentrated for a second, melting into a bear. As bears went she wasn’t large, but Ezra had seen her fight this way before; she didn’t have to be. “Come on,” she said, and charged.

“Wait—” he started, but a large group of the elementals had already noticed her. Ezra sighed and added a shield to her defenses.

With Makavi in bear-form, better at withstanding damage than dealing it, and Ezra concentrating on healing her, it was a bit of a slog, but they dispatched the first group and picked up the azerite that lingered in the remnants. Ezra didn’t like to handle the stuff bare-handed; it tingled and sparked against his skin. When that was done Makavi provoked another group by the simple expedient of running at them roaring.

Therefore she didn’t see the glaive spinning towards her. Ezra shouted a warning as the glaive struck one of the elementals—and caromed off it into two more, before whirling back the way it had come. As it did a voidwalker slammed into another of the creatures, its shadowy bulk even blacker against the azerite-glow of the elemental. Then the glaive’s owner came leaping down from the ridge that overlooked them, and somehow Ezra wasn’t surprised to see that it was Crowley.

He hit one of the elementals and it gave an unearthly shriek. Makavi roared in rage and swiped with one front paw, catching Crowley along with the elementals. “Maka, no!” Ezra shouted, but if she heard him she chose to ignore it. Ezra bit his tongue in indecision.

In the end there was no other choice; he waved and threw a shield around Crowley too. A bolt of fire lanced through the air and Ezra glanced in the direction it had come from. A goblin woman in an incongruously white robe stood gathering more fire between her hands. A warlock: the voidwalker must be hers.

Crowley was doing more damage, and while the elementals weren’t very smart they at least understood wanting to hit something that had hurt them. He retreated a step at a time, drawing them with him and away from Makavi. Ezra took advantage of their distraction to run up to his friend and grab the fur at her shoulder. He was under no illusions about her ability to break his hold, but friendship counted for something. “Leave the Horde alone!” he said, loud enough to be heard over the screams of the injured elementals. “Run back, change forms, you’ll do more damage that way.” Bears’ faces lack much ability to express emotion, but Ezra didn’t need much to read Makavi’s skepticism. “Please!”

She growled at him, gave an elemental another swipe, and then fell back, away from them. Ezra sighed in relief and followed. Once they had breathing space she shifted again, her usual body but transparent and shot through with stars. “I’ll even try not to hit him,” she said. Ezra winced. There was going to be some explaining to do, he could tell.

Even with Makavi’s beams of moonlight raining down on them and the warlock’s bolts of fire, Crowley kept the elementals’ attention by being right in front of them, obviously doing damage; they did _not_ understand the concept of hitting at a distance. They were down to the last few of the nearby elementals when the warlock shouted, “Crowley, down!” He threw himself flat as a bolt of pure chaos ravened over his head. The elementals didn’t dodge, and it caught them. They collapsed into the little glowing balls that were their remains.

Then the four of them stood there, eyeing each other. Crowley was panting from the exertion of the fight, but otherwise it was oddly quiet. The goblin came carefully down the slope she’d been standing on and her voidwalker fell back to her side, looming over her protectively. She watched Makavi, who glared back.

In a voice that suggested he was making a threat, Crowley said in Thalassian, “Well. How do you want to play this?”

“She already saw me shield you,” said Ezra ruefully, in the same language. “I trust her. What about your friend?”

“She doesn’t love Sylvanas,” said Crowley, and his stance relaxed. He switched to Orcish and said, “All right then. I suggest we all pick up what we need and get away from here before someone else from either side shows up, yeah?” Ezra translated quietly for Makavi, who huffed incredulously.

“Are you joking? They’re Horde!”

From the other side of the group the goblin’s voice rose, “—suggesting we work with bluecoats?” Ezra didn’t catch Crowley’s reply.

Ezra made a show of turning to face Makavi, and not incidentally putting his back to Crowley and the goblin. “I know him. Do you trust me?”

“You’re going to explain this to me later,” Makavi said darkly. Ezra nodded, and bent to the nearest glowing ball. After a moment, Makavi followed suit, and when Ezra glanced at them both Crowley and the warlock were doing the same—though her voidwalker was not-so-subtly positioned between her and Makavi. Ezra could hear his friend muttering under her breath. The most complimentary thing she called the Horde was “damned tree-burners, the lot of them.” He ignored it; she had every right, though he was confident Crowley had had nothing personally to do with Teldrassil’s destruction.

They had to fight a few more elementals, but between a warlock, a demon hunter, and a spellcasting druid they made quick work of it. Ezra picked up a few more spheres for his bag and weighed it in his hand. “I think I’m about done,” he told Makavi, and then repeated it in Orcish for the benefit of Crowley and the goblin.

“Us too,” said Crowley, and picked his way across the ground between them with the grace of all elves. Ezra envied it. His body was sufficient for his purposes and he liked it, but he’d never fooled himself that it was particularly attractive, especially these days. He went to meet Crowley, who had slung a pack off his back and opened it. As Ezra approached Crowley pulled out a green glass bottle. “Here,” the elf said, offering it. “It’s from the vineyards outside Silvermoon.”

Pleasantly startled, Ezra took it. “Thank you. Just a moment.” He hoped he didn’t sound too flustered. He opened his own pack and removed two smaller bottles. “Nightwine. From Suramar but I’m sure you know that. Makavi—” He waved a hand at her. “—likes to roam, and I asked her to bring me back some good drink.” He made himself stop talking.

“Thanks,” said Crowley. He put the bottles into his pack. “Droxi and I should leave. I know you have an outpost somewhere near here and it wouldn’t be good for an Alliance patrol to catch us. Especially not with you two.” He made a thoughtful face and called, “Makavi.” Startled, she looked up at him. Very slowly and distinctly, Crowley said, “We are not all Sylvanas. I weep for your home.”

Makavi didn’t speak Thalassian, but it was close kin to her native language. From the look on her face she’d caught enough of the gist of it to be surprised.

“You’re so kind,” Ezra blurted, and felt his cheeks heat.

Crowley muttered, “I’m not.”

Ezra decided not to push it. “Well, it’s too bad there’s nowhere to sit and have a drink. I’ll keep an eye out for you the next time I have good wine.”

“Do that,” said Crowley.

“Mind how you go,” Ezra told him.

“I always do.” Crowley turned back to his friend and Ezra didn’t realise he was just standing there staring until he noticed the goblin watching him in blatant speculation.

He coughed. “Shall we go?”

He and Makavi went back up the slope side by side. “What exactly did the sin’dora say?” she asked.

Ezra told her. She sighed. “Just be careful. Even if he’s trustworthy—” Her expression said she seriously doubted it. “—he’s still Horde, and his side wouldn’t be any happier than ours about you two fraternizing.”

“Fraternizing?” he said, mock-indignant.

“Well, whatever you wish to call it.”

Ezra chuckled. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” The encampment guard waved a casual salute at them as they passed him. “Let’s go back to Boralus and have a drink. I can tell you how I met him,” said Ezra. “I’ll even share my new bottle with you, if you promise to bring me back some more nightwine.”

Makavi laughed. “As always,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrande Whisperwind, leader of the night elves, performed a ritual after Teldrassil was burnt by the Horde. She gained the power of the moon goddess Elune as the Night Warrior, to get revenge for her people. Player character night elves can customize their appearance to resemble the Night Warrior as well.
> 
>  **Voidwalker:** A kind of non-intelligent demon that can be summoned by warlocks. Its usual purpose is to 'tank', that is to keep the attention of computer-controlled enemies so that they don't attack the warlock while s/he does damage to them. Voidwalkers are animate shadows with arms and a suggestion of a head with glowing eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley didn’t know who had decided to time a major strike into enemy territory for after midnight, but whoever it was, he hated them. He’d been looking forward to getting some sleep.

But at least it was almost over; he and a few other highly-mobile types had been dispatched to start rounding up fighters who had wandered away from the main points of attack. The poor part of the Kul Tiran city lacked really useful targets, but that didn't mean no one had gotten lost.

He slid down a narrow passage between two buildings and came to a halt as sounds began to reach him. Around the corner, someone was being beaten. The jeers were in Orcish, which meant the someone getting hit was Alliance. Crowley focused through the building. Down the way two figures stood over another, huddled on the ground. He peered around the corner for a more detailed look.

The light was bad, but that hardly mattered to him. The shorter attacker was an orc, a lizard of some kind draped around his shoulders, the other one of the Forsaken with a wild shock of corpse-pale hair. _Oh, blast it_ , Crowley thought grimly.

Negotiation wouldn’t work, not with these two; he’d have to rely on surprise. He leapt, landing with a burst of fel power that stunned the attackers for a crucial few seconds, and scooped up the recumbent human. As the Forsaken began to shake his head, Crowley jumped away again. He kept moving until he couldn’t hear the other two behind him, and then a little longer, and finally stopped in another dank alley of the type that Boralus seemed to have in abundance. He set his burden down, dug in his belt pouch for a healing potion, dropped the vial on the human’s chest, and prepared to leave before the man woke enough to be frightened.

Except then he got a good look, and of course it was Ezra. He didn’t know why he was even surprised at this point.

Crowley picked the potion up and thumbed open the cap. He held it to Ezra’s lips. “Ezra. Priest, wake up. Come on, drink this, it’ll help.” As far as he knew it was impossible to choke on a healing potion, and a good thing too because Ezra was too dazed to swallow properly at first. Then he did, and groaned as the liquid worked its magic.

Ezra blinked his eyes open. “What—Crowley?” He sat up. “What in the name of the Light are you doing here?” The priest climbed to his feet, looking around in confusion, and then his voice went hard. “Using the attack as cover for pillaging? No one in this district has anything worth stealing.” He turned on his heel and began to stalk away.

It took a moment to compose a response. “ _Pillaging_? Of course not. What were you doing letting those two corner you anyway? You’ve got to learn to look behind you, priest, it’s not safe!”

Ezra rounded on him, and Crowley noted with some unease that the shadows near him were...thicker than the rest. It somehow hadn’t occurred to him that Ezra was just as capable of calling the shadows as any other priest. “Not safe?” the human demanded. “Going about my business, helping people in _my own city_ , is _not safe?_ ” Crowley barely stopped himself from taking a step back. Shadows swirling around him, Ezra said coldly, “I’d never have believed it of you, Crowley, attacking people in their homes.” 

“I’m not attacking people’s homes!” Crowley protested, and then realised his voice had gotten a bit too loud. More quietly, he went on, “There are military targets not ten minutes’ walk that way, you know. They sent me into the city to round up stray grunts, and it's a damn good thing for you I'm here! Unless you _wanted_ to be beaten to a pulp by scum like Hastur and Ligur."

The shadows retreated a bit. Crowley absolutely did not sigh in relief. “Those two need to be stopped,” Ezra said. “I can’t leave them around innocents.” He tried to move past, and Crowley took him by the arm.

“I can’t help you fight them, you know that. If word got back to high command that I’m attacking allies, well. Let's just say Sylvanas doesn't send rude notes when she's displeased. No, _wait_.”

Ezra paused. The shadows were still with him, but his voice was more like normal. “I do know that, my dear boy, but you know I have to protect the people of this city.” He moved again and Crowley tried to block him.

“Look, I’ll go tell them they’ve been recalled. It’s even true.” He licked his lips and said in a rush, “And-you-shouldn't-call-me-that.”

That at least was surprising enough to knock Ezra out of his train of thought. “What? Why should I not call you my dear boy?”

Crowley bit his lip. “Erm. I don't know what it implies in Common, but in Thalassian…” He fixed his gaze on a spot behind Ezra’s head. “In Thalassian it’s one of the things you call your lover.”

“Oh,” Ezra stuttered. “Oh, I didn’t...I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, to make you uncomfortable. Of course I won’t…”

“No, look, it's fine,” said Crowley. “I just—you don't want people to think that you'd—let's just go find those two and get them out of your city, all right?” He grimaced. “I know your lot thinks we’re all like them.”

“I don’t, and I don’t care what people think,” said Ezra. “They think I’m strange anyway. But you’re right, we should go.” He opened his bag and rummaged in it for a moment, pulling out a wad of cloth. “Here, it’s my guild tabard. The guildmaster is Illidari as well, and it’s too dark for them to take much notice of your hair.” He made a sound that was almost a laugh. “For a few seconds when I woke I thought you might be him, in fact.”

Crowley held the tabard for a second, thinking it over, and then shrugged. As he pulled it over his head, he said, “A priest and a demon hunter isn’t just strange, it’s practically heresy. We’re. Well, you know what we are.” He tugged the tabard down to straighten it. “Right. They were that way, let’s go, and be careful. They’re both stealthy bastards. Know how to lurk.”

“Heresy, really?” said Ezra. He sounded indignant. “No matter what power you wield, you do so for good ends. You gave up your home, your family, to fight the Legion.”

Crowley didn’t know quite how to reply. He didn’t often encounter non-Illidari who did more than tolerate him. He’d been lucky to find a guild that accepted him and his brothers and sisters.

“In any case, it will be better for your friends if they do stay hidden from me,” Ezra went on.

“They are _not my friends_ ,” Crowley spat, and then caught himself. “Sorry. They were at Darkshore, searching for Alliance wounded. And not to take them prisoner.” He shrugged. “They love what the Banshee Queen is doing.”

“I know them, you know,” said Ezra, and something in his voice made Crowley pause to look at him. “They’ve killed me, more than once. Well, discorporated. It was decidedly less than pleasant.” He cleared his throat. “In any case, thank you. It can’t have been a decision made lightly, to go against your own side in aid of someone you’ve only met a few times.”

“Oh, I didn’t see who you were until after,” said Crowley absently. He stopped and surveyed the way ahead, looking for familiar silhouettes on the other side of the buildings. “I just don’t like a pair of thugs kicking a person to death. Ah! _There_ they are, Hastur at least. Follow me.”

He got several steps away before noticing that Ezra wasn’t following. The priest stood looking at him, and Crowley felt like squirming under the regard. “I know you hate that I say it, but you really are a hero.”

It was at least dark enough that Ezra probably couldn’t see the heat that rose in Crowley’s cheeks. “Rubbish,” he said. “Come on.”

A few minutes’ cautious maneuvering got them to within a corner of Hastur. Crowley was fairly certain they were at his back. At this distance even spectral sight couldn’t spot Ligur, but he wouldn’t be far off. “Ready?” he asked, no more than a breath of sound. Ezra nodded, and waved a hand. Shields sprang into being around both of them.

Crowley charged, reaching for his demon-form as he went. It made him stronger, and also—he hoped—less recognizable. A demon’s a demon, after all. He shouted his best approximation of _For the Alliance_ ; everyone in the Horde had heard that often enough to recognize it, and if his accent was bad it didn’t matter. Shadows boiled through the air at his back, reaching for Hastur. Even knowing Ezra was on Crowley’s side, it was a little frightening.

Taken by surprise, Hastur was beaten down to one knee almost at once. Crowley was raising his glaive to swing it down at the Forsaken’s head when a shadow that wasn’t Ezra’s coalesced into Ligur, stabbing a long, wicked dagger at Crowley’s back. His cuirass couldn’t turn the blade and only momentum let him land the blow on Hastur, who collapsed—discorporated, Crowley hoped, but at least out of the fight for a few moments. He whirled and the motion made him stagger; Ligur danced out of the way of a wild swing.

But couldn’t get out of the way of Ezra’s shadows. In the dim alley even Crowley could barely see the one that swooped down onto the orc, wrapping around him. Ligur’s wail echoed on the alley’s walls as the shadow left him and hurled itself at Crowley. There wasn’t any way to block it; he had to trust that Ezra’s magic wouldn’t hurt him. He swayed at the immaterial impact, and suddenly his back didn’t hurt anymore. Ezra had pulled _life_ out of Ligur to heal him.

That sort of thing was why shadow-priests were feared.

The shock of the drain set Ligur off-balance. Crowley swung again and the lucky hit all but took the orc’s head off. He toppled. Crowley let his arms fall out of fighting stance, let go of the demon-form, and turned in time to see Ezra’s feet touch pavement again—the priest had been floating, buoyed by his shadows.

The fight had been short, but Crowley’s breath came heavy. “Alright,” he said between breaths. “Ligur might have gotten a look at me. Orcs have good night vision.” He looked down at Hastur. The Forsaken wasn’t breathing, but then they never did. “Wait for me around the corner,” he said. He’d intended it to be a command, but it didn’t come out that way.

“Whatever for?” said Ezra. The shadows still surrounded him, but they were thinning.

“I’m going to—make sure they can’t come back to these bodies,” Crowley replied. “They’ll lose all their gear and it’s no more than they deserve.” He wondered what had happened to Ligur's lizard.

Ezra stood silent for a moment. “Of course,” he said, in a strangely gentle voice, and walked away.

Ligur didn’t take much effort, not with his spine already all but severed; Hastur was only a little more work. Crowley carefully didn’t think about what he was doing as he cut the corpse’s head off. He cleaned his glaives on Ligur’s clothing and went to join Ezra.

“I should get back to my ship,” said Crowley, as they walked. He had no particular destination in mind other than ‘away from a pair of Horde corpses’. “They sent me out because we’re going to be withdrawn soon. This sort of strike isn’t meant to hold territory. Ezra, I…” He trailed off. What was there to say? He’d come here to attack Ezra’s home.

“Crowley, truly, I thank you, and I hope all the orc saw was a demon hunter in Alliance guild colors,” said the priest. His hands, clasped before him, worried at each other for a moment. “I would like. Well. There has to be somewhere safer that we could meet.” He looked everywhere but straight at Crowley as he spoke.

Crowley cast about for something to say. “Dalaran. Can you get to Dalaran? There’s a tavern down by the crafter’s district, the Legerdemain.”

“Dalaran. Oh, yes, I can get there. There are portals, you know, in Stormwind.” Ezra sounded delighted and Crowley couldn’t imagine why. He stripped the tabard off and offered it to Ezra. The priest reached out for it and as he took it their fingers brushed.

Crowley’s breath stopped for a moment.

“All right. Dalaran then, in three days? Four? Whenever you like, I’ll be there,” he said as soon as he could, hoping his voice didn’t sound as strange to Ezra as it did to him.

“I’ll, oh, just a moment, I nearly forgot!” The bottle Ezra offered him this time wasn’t the right shape to be wine. He couldn’t have read the label in this light even if he’d known the Common letters. “Please, it’s for you.”

Crowley took it. “Should I say thank you?” For the first time that night he felt something like a smile on his face.

Ezra said, “Better not, I suppose.” He sounded amused.

“I—” Crowley began, but he was cut off by an explosion, too far away to be loud. They both turned reflexively to look but the thin slice of sky they could see showed nothing. Then another sound split the air, a blast of trumpets. “That's the recall, I have to go,” said Crowley. “If I don’t check in they’ll assume I’ve been discorporated and I don’t want to have to explain. Three days, priest, I’ll be there in three days, at noon.” He stepped back even as he spoke.

“At noon,” Ezra agreed. “Crowley—” He cut himself off, started again.

Crowley grinned. “Mind how you go.” He turned and started to run, leaving Ezra’s startled laughter behind him.

He barely made it back, despite resorting to gliding between rooftops. It wasn’t safe, made it more likely he’d be spotted, but nothing about this night had been safe and if anyone did spot him at least none of them tried to shoot him.

The explosion had been the assault airship, which wallowed in the bay still burning even as it sank, but the transports were intact. Crowley boarded one at random and made his way down to the hold past a group of other sin’dorei. They were gloating about something and he didn’t listen too closely lest he scream at them. Even as he went the airship’s engines engaged and they started to move.

In the hold he settled on one of the long benches against the wall. There were fewer fighters than there had been when they landed; the Alliance had inflicted damage, though he had no idea which side had ‘won’. No doubt they’d both claim the victory.

Crowley tipped his head back against the wall and let himself remember his fingers brushing Ezra’s as they passed the tabard between them.

 _I am in so much trouble_ , he thought.


	6. Chapter 6

It was easy to get to Dalaran, these days, the portal in Boralus to the mages’ tower in Stormwind and another portal—though Makavi insisted that Ezra go outside for a few minutes, just to enjoy his reaction to the fact that the room he’d just left was immensely too large to fit into the tower that purportedly housed it.

Ezra was a city boy; he’d grown up in the bustle of a busy port. But Dalaran wasn’t just a city, it was the city of mages, and it was steeped in magic—quite aside from the fact that it floated in the air above the Broken Isles. The streets were cleaner than any Ezra had ever seen and the many lamps needed no fuel. He stopped staring the third time someone walked past with a tiny elemental at their heel like an obedient dog.

“This is where I turn,” said Makavi at a corner. “Am I meeting you at the tavern or back in Boralus?”

“As you like, my dear,” said Ezra. “I know I’ll be staying until tomorrow at least.”

“We’ll see, then. It’s a long flight.” She looked him up and down. “Why this sudden interest in exploring, Ez?”

“Ah, well, you see—” Ezra stuttered. He should have prepared a better cover story.

Makavi stepped a little closer and said, “I heard someone saw a priest and a demon hunter fighting two Horde in the city the other night. It was mentioned to me because the Illidar was in our guild colors.” She raised an eloquent eyebrow. “But I know what Mhorduna was doing during that attack and it wasn’t fighting in a Boralus alley.”

“Maka,” Ezra began.

“Ezra, I’ve said it before: be careful,” she said seriously. “This is a safe place, but you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Everyone seemed to think he couldn’t take care of himself. Ezra was a little nettled, but they were concerned because they cared for his well-being and it was hard to begrudge them that. “I’ll be careful. You too—rest if you need to.”

Makavi nodded. They clasped hands and she turned away.

The city was as quiet as a city ever got, and Ezra enjoyed the relative calm as he walked towards the crafters’ district. A tavern sign, marked in both Common and Orcish, read ‘The Legerdemain Lounge,’ and he went in through the propped-open door.

The common room was large and airy, with a dozen tables scattered through it and a bar along one wall. There were bookshelves that he promised himself he’d investigate later. The bartender was happy to let him a room for the night—custom had gone down sharply since the end of the Legion—and on a whim Ezra decided to bind his hearthstone as well. Dalaran felt like an oasis of peace in the world at war.

He dropped his small bag in his new room and went out to explore.

* * *

Crowley was aware that at first glance he and Droxi made an odd pair. He was slightly less than twice her height, just for starters, and for those with eyes to see it her skin was green as leaves. She wasn’t his oath-sister, but he felt a kinship to her; she had also taken the power of the Legion and bent it to her own ends, and to the defense of Azeroth.

Kinship or no, however, at the moment he rather wished he hadn’t mentioned this trip to her. He should have known that telling her he was going to Northrend to gather goldclover was a bad idea; she’d insisted on going with him, claiming a need for Talandra’s rose that might even have been sincere. Droxi kept a much better eye on the market than he did and for all he knew Talandra’s rose was in demand.

Dalaran was far from the busy, noisy place it had been during the height of the assault on the Legion. It felt like a school when no classes were in session, and there wasn’t going to be any chance to lose his friend in the nonexistent crowds. Finally, as they approached the point where he was going to have to turn to head to the Legerdemain, he said, “I’m not really here for herbs.”

Droxi stopped. “I know that, kiddo, you ain’t nearly as subtle as you think you are,” she said kindly. “Lucky for you, I _am_ here for herbs and I’ll even pick up some goldclover while I’m at it.” Crowley made a sheepish face and she smirked at him, but then went on, “Look, you’re a big boy and you can watch your own back, but keep in mind that not everyone who comes through a neutral city is neutral, okay? There’s a war on and no one’s gonna be happy if you get caught keeping company with a bluecoat.”

“Thanks,” he said. There was nothing else to say, really. "I'll be at the Legerdemain."

Droxi nodded, and started walking again. “You owe me one,” she said over her shoulder. Crowley stood where he was for a moment, laughing at himself, before he turned in the direction of the Legerdemain. He was nearly an hour early, and Dorothy’s greenhouse was near the tavern, so perhaps he’d take a few minutes to stop and talk to her.

* * *

Ezra stayed upstairs as late as he could force himself to, but it was still more than an hour before noon when he went down to the common room. For lack of anything better to do he ordered some food and put a book on the table to read.

He couldn’t concentrate. He felt selfish for taking time off to indulge his own interests, and who could guarantee that Crowley would even show up? If he didn’t, how long should Ezra wait, and was it because he’d lost interest, or decided it was too big a risk, or, oh, by the Light, what if Crowley were in trouble for having helped Ezra in Boralus?

He squirmed in his seat, unable to get comfortable. His food arrived, and while normally he’d have been quite tempted by the fried blocks of cheese, the sight of it made him feel a little sick. At the same time he felt giddy, effervescent, and couldn’t reconcile the two.

He was making a fool of himself. There was no reason for someone like Crowley to be interested in someone like him, no matter how charming the demon hunter looked when he was flustered. Ezra found himself staring fixedly at a spot on the table, replaying over and over the moment when their fingers had brushed. He shook himself and stood up. He’d just go out and walk a bit, clear his head. He shoved his book back into his bag and headed for the door.

Out on the street he chose a direction arbitrarily and began to walk, but he hadn’t gotten more than twenty yards when behind him someone called, “Priest!” Ezra tried to stop, turn, and walk on all at once, and stumbled a little in consequence. By the time he’d gotten himself sorted Crowley had come up to him.

“I suppose we’re both early,” said Crowley, smiling. It didn’t look like an expression that came easily to him. “You’re headed in the wrong direction, though.”

Ezra laughed, and felt his cheeks heat when it came out sounding more like a giggle. _Oh, yes, very sophisticated, giggling like a schoolchild,_ he thought. “I’ve been in the city since last night,” he said. “So that it wouldn’t seem as if I were here just to see you.” _And now you’re hinting that seeing him isn’t reason enough. Excellent, Ezra, top marks._

Crowley didn’t seem offended or put off, though _._ “I said I was coming through on the way to Northrend to gather goldclover,” he said. Ezra told himself firmly that the elf didn’t sound _fond_. "It's easy to get turned around here, something about all the mages. Come on, the tavern's back this way." He waved a hand back the way Ezra had come. “You probably walked right past it.”

“So you’re a student of herblore as well,” said Ezra, delighted, as they began to walk. “Perhaps we could go out together, sometime, make a day of it.”

“I’d have to refresh my memory,” said Crowley. “I’ve been concentrating on a few things that are common in Zandalar lately. Been a while since I went hunting for earthroot—or goldclover, for that matter.”

“Oh, earthroot’s such a trial sometimes, growing out of those lovely rocky slopes it likes.”

Crowley tilted his head in a way that suggested he was looking at Ezra sideways. “I’d rather that than liferoot,” he said. “Hate mud on my boots.”

They turned to enter the tavern and their arms brushed. Ezra’s heart jolted in his chest and he had to hope it didn’t show on his face.

The barmaid glanced over at them and said, “Oh, Ezra, did you still want your plate?” She gestured at his hastily abandoned table.

“Yes, my dear, I do apologize,” he told her, and turned to Crowley to discover that the elf was standing stock still.

* * *

“You were already here,” Crowley heard himself say. “You were leaving.”

All he could think was that he should have known.

A servant of the Light wouldn’t be interested in something like him. Ezra’d just wanted to spare them both the awkwardness, and then Crowley had chased him down in the street. It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic. “Right,” said Crowley. “Well then.” He yanked open his belt pouch, hoping to move quickly enough to disguise the way his hands were shaking, and extracted a book. It was small, only a little larger than his flat hand, but the leather cover was chased with gilt. He set it down on the nearest table. “That’s yours. Enjoy the war, priest.” He turned on his heel and strode towards the door, schooling his face to blankness.

Ezra’s hand landed on his arm and Crowley shied from it like it burned him. “Wait, please,” said Ezra urgently. Crowley, weak as he was, stopped. “I was only going for a walk. I’ve been here since yesterday, I was worried you’d gotten into trouble for helping me. I was only going for a walk.”

“I don’t blame you,” Crowley said, his voice as steady as he could force it to be. “I...you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to pretend.”

“I don’t understand, pretend _what_? I’ve been here since yesterday, you can ask them.” Ezra waved his hand at the bar staff, both of whom had given up on pretending not to watch. “Why would I have come, just to leave? Surely it would have been easier to stay back in Boralus.” He sat heavily in the nearest chair and his breath caught in a familiar way and Crowley’d managed to make him _cry_.

“Don’t, please don’t cry,” said Crowley helplessly. “It’s not your fault. I’ve been damned since I swore to follow Illidan, priest, you can’t save me and it’s not your fault.” At his sides his hands twitched but he didn’t reach out, refused to risk it.

“I’m not trying to _save you_ , Crowley! You don’t _need_ to be saved.” Tears ran down his face but his voice was firm. “Do you know where I found your pack?”

Crowley shook his head. There’d been about an hour there where he’d been paying attention to nothing but how painful it was to breathe and hadn’t noticed the strap breaking.

“It was in Hammerfall. Where the children lived, where you almost got discorporated trying to find out if they were alright.”

“Of course I did, they’re kids, you can’t kill kids—” Crowley began, but Ezra just kept talking.

“They did get out, I asked, one of the pikemen saw them, but the point is that you were _there_. And in Boralus, you saved me. Without knowing it was me. Even though you had to defy your own side to do it, and Sylvanas—Crowley, do you think I don’t know what she’d do? If we’re found out, I’ll spend a few uncomfortable days answering pointed questions. Sylvanas will _destroy_ you. And you’re here anyway. Is it so strange that I’d want to, to spend time with someone like that?”

“I’m still taking her orders!” Crowley exclaimed. “You know that. With Saurfang prisoner there’s no one to hold them back, her and Blightcaller and I’m—how can you _want_ this?” He hadn’t been able to cry for years but he could hear tears in his own voice.

“I don’t know how,” said Ezra, staunch and steady and if Crowley hadn’t been in trouble already that would have done it. “I don’t, but there’s more in this world than us against them, and no matter what you think deep down you’re a good person. And I would like to know you.”

Crowley pulled out the other chair and sat in it—or rather, he collapsed like his strings had been cut; his relationship to the chair could only very loosely be described as _sitting_. For a long time neither of them said anything. The bar staff went back to...whatever they’d been doing before, Crowley had absolutely no idea. Finally he reached out and pushed the book closer to Ezra. “This is for you.” Ezra wouldn’t know what it meant, he wasn’t Illidari, so Crowley could indulge himself and it was fine.

Ezra thumbed at his eyes to clear away the last few tears and picked up the book. A smile, wide enough that Crowley could see it, bloomed on his face as he studied the volume. “Thank you.” He opened it to the colophon in the back. “Oh, this edition is very rare, I’d never thought to lay my hands on one.” After a moment he looked up and said, “You said you, erm, don’t read, but I could read it aloud. If you like. I’ve read some of the author’s other work, the prose is lovely.”

Crowley took a deep breath. “I, ah. Yes, if you don’t mind. I would like to hear it. Not just now, though, first you have to tell me how a human from Kul Tiras comes to know anything about elven bookbinding.”

Ezra turned to the bar and said something in Common. The bartender nodded. “There’s not much to say,” the priest continued. “I love books. I tended a library, I learnt other languages when it turned out I had a knack for it. But the Alliance said it needed my help, and now I seem to be a hero of Azeroth. If a middle-aged priest who’s a bit too fond of the pleasures of the table can be a hero.”

“You can come back from the in-between. That’s all the qualification you need,” said Crowley. It wasn’t vanishingly rare, but people with what Ezra called ‘immortal souls’ were uncommon enough that you’d have to be incompetent indeed before either side would turn down your help.

“I suppose,” said Ezra, sounding a little morose. The barmaid came to their table and set down two mugs. Crowley picked one up and sniffed it. The scent wasn’t promising, but he gamely took a sip, and grimaced.

“What in the _world_ is this made of? Or on second thought, don’t tell me, I don’t think I can watch you drink it if you do.” He set the mug back down and pushed it away with one finger. “I wish I had confidence that Bronzebeard has a plan. He has us running about putting out small fires but that's not dousing the source of the sparks.”

“I’m sure he does have a plan. We’re just too involved in the war to see it.” Ezra sighed. “So, my fellow hero, tell me. What do you like to do, aside from running about doing good and hiding it?”

“That’s _not_ ,” Crowley started, and then realised he was being teased. “You’re a menace, priest.” Ezra chuckled into his mug. “I dabble in alchemy, though I haven’t had much time for it lately. That’s what the herblore’s in aid of. That and going out gathering’s a good excuse to get out of the city. I play chess—and I’m warning you now, never play Droxi. She’s absolutely cutthroat and worse, she’s sneaky.” He debated with himself for a moment. “I used to enjoy reading, but it’s hard to get through more than a short note anymore. Starts to give me a headache after a page or two, and eventually the letters just...get away from me.”

“Oh, that’s dreadful,” said Ezra, and from the sound of his voice he meant it. “You _must_ allow me to read for you, then, I insist.”

“I’m not going to make you put a knife to my throat. What about you, what do you do when you aren’t riding alone in dangerous places?”

“Well, as I said, I also do some gathering,” Ezra replied, in a tone that made it clear he was loftily ignoring Crowley. “I need the pigments, I do a bit of business in glyphs. As for chess, I haven’t played in some time. Bit of a lack of opponents.”

“Most people I ask, they say something about Karazhan and refuse,” Crowley agreed. He had yet to get anyone to explain _what_ about Karazhan. “If they have a board in here I’ll spot you a pawn.”

Ezra went to ask, and was directed to one of the bookshelves. After a moment he returned with a folding chessboard, covered in dust. “I suppose people prefer Hearthstone these days. I don’t care for it myself.” He began to set out the pieces. “Would you like to take white?”

* * *

“If you’re out of practice you should take white,” said Crowley, and turned the board. He looked up and his lips drew into a smirk. “It’s not symbolic.”

“Well, if you insist,” Ezra said, and resumed his seat. “But I suspect that in this world everything is symbolic.”

Crowley shrugged and said, “Well then, in this case it symbolises not wanting to have an unfair advantage.” His smirk smoothed out into a smile, albeit one that still held a hint of mischief. Ezra found the expression far more charming than he should have. “Would you care to put a wager on it?”

“I care to entertain ourselves with a game. We don’t need to recreate the war in miniature,” said Ezra, and moved a pawn.

Crowley looked up from the board, his face growing serious. “This war is madness. Something has to be done.” His hand hovered for a moment before dipping down to one of his own pieces. “I think your Anduin-King would end it, if he could.”

Ezra nodded. “As would Saurfang, given the occasion.”

“He’s not likely to have much occasion, in a cell in Stormwind.”

The board put Ezra in mind of an opening from a book on chess strategy he’d read once, so he made the next move. “I say that a cell in Stormwind is a very good place to be safe from your queen while planning what to do next.”

“Not my queen. She wouldn’t have me even if I wanted her—I’m not dead enough for her tastes. She’s Warchief, and we swore to obey her.” Crowley grimaced. “I don’t have to like it.”

Ezra made a show of studying the board and said, “Honourable to keep such an oath. King Varian appreciated that about the Horde, from what we heard in Kul Tiras and what people say about him now.”

“I never saw him, I’ve only heard the stories. It’s probably no great comfort to his son, but he died achieving something.”

“He was a great king, though not mine. We rejoined the Alliance quite recently,” Ezra said. He moved his queen’s bishop. “That battle could have been a moment of connection between our sides. Instead we lost two leaders to the great evil.”

“The Legion is gone now, at least,” said Crowley, his voice full of a grim species of satisfaction.

“Against the Legion it was easier to know the right thing to do,” said Ezra thoughtfully, a bit distracted by the hole Crowley had just left in his defense. “It’s not always obvious—in fact it’s hardly ever obvious, if you ask me. Honour isn’t easy to define.”

“Defined or not, Varian-King had it.”

“Oh, I agree. In the last war, he stopped a battle to allow a father to retrieve the body of his son.”

“In Icecrown. I’ve heard that story too. I didn’t see it, I was—otherwise occupied.” Crowley made a face; Ezra wondered if he was conscious of it. The elf went on, “This azerite, it’s a menace. Sylvanas wouldn’t have been able to burn the Tree without it, and using it feels like preying on Azeroth.”

Ezra sighed. “It’s nonsense. Azeroth is our home, all of us. Using her blood to win a war will do nothing but make us all lose.” He looked down at the board. “Mate in six, I’m afraid. I think your heart isn’t in the game.”

Crowley leant back in his chair. The corners of his lips twitched like he was trying to suppress a smile. “Maybe I’m going easy on you, priest. You claimed to be out of practice.”

Ezra couldn’t help but chuckle. “I am out of practice. Who has time for anything but the war?” Crowley’s smile broadened, and Ezra supposed he should find it menacing; elves had predator’s teeth to begin with and the Illidari only more so. Instead he was appalled to discover he thought it was _cute_. What in the world had gotten into him?

“Well. You’re right I’ve lost this one, though I think I could draw it out to eight moves. We’ll play again and this time I will take white.” He started placing the pieces. Ezra noticed his fingers moving over them (long, slender fingers, but everything about Crowley was long and slender, and oh dear, _that_ had a possible meaning Ezra hadn’t intended), as if he needed to feel as well as see to identify which side a piece belonged to. “That is, if you have time?”

Ezra knew he had to account for his own feelings; even so he didn’t think he was imagining that Crowley sounded hopeful. It was selfish of him to spend time here amusing himself when back in the real world there were people who needed his healing—but all his guildmates seemed to take time off as they liked, so he resolved not to worry about it. “Ah, I see your cunning plan now,” he said, and laughed again when Crowley looked up at him, startled. “You’re going to deplete the ranks of the enemy by tempting us with things to do that are more fun.”

“You’ve caught me,” said Crowley in mock chagrin. “Is it working?”

“Oh, goodness yes. Temptation accomplished,” Ezra assured him.

* * *

For most of the afternoon they played chess, splitting the games roughly equally. Eventually that palled, and they fell to just talking. They didn’t get drunk—quite—but neither was at his most alert when a Gilnean woman walked through the door at Ezra’s back. Crowley watched for a few seconds as she glanced around, but decided it was the normal caution of a person used to danger and thought no more of it. She sat at the bar, ordered ale, drank it, and slipped back out.

It was mid-evening when Crowley became aware of someone waiting at his elbow. He turned to see Droxi, holding a pair of bags. “When I told you to watch your back, I didn’t mean sit in the common room in full view of the naaru and everyone,” she said dryly, and offered him a bag. The spicy scent of goldclover drifted from it. “Here. Your cover.”

“Thanks. Again,” said Crowley, and took it.

From the other side of the table, Ezra cleared his throat and said in Orcish, “Thank you for being a good friend to him.”

It took Droxi only a second to rally. “Yeah, yeah,” she said. “You don’t get him killed and we’ll call it even.”

“I’m right here,” Crowley protested. Droxi turned her attention back to him, radiating skepticism, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, all right. We'll go.”

Ezra stood and held out his hand. In Thalassian, he said, “I really must thank you for the day, and for that lovely book. I’ve a room to retire to and read. I’d like to read it to you, next time.” He coughed. “If, erm, if you care for a next time. I wouldn’t like to impose.”

Crowley froze for a beat before working up the courage to take the offered hand. “I don’t know when I’ll...well, you know how it is. I’ll check here when I can, yeah?” He became aware that they were just standing there, essentially holding hands, when Droxi cleared her throat. Reluctantly he let go. “Good night, priest,” he said softly.

“Good night, Crowley,” Ezra replied. “I’ll be here any time I can, but—well, mind how you go.” He picked up the chessboard and took it back to its shelf; in passing he bumped his shoulder into Crowley’s.

Crowley made a noise that contained no actual vowels. Beside him Droxi heaved a sigh and snapped her fingers at him until he looked at her. “Come on. I gotta get home before the rugrats go to bed.”

“Right! Right,” said Crowley, and they headed for the door. He didn’t look back, but it was probably the hardest thing he’d done all day.

* * *

Ezra watched as the pair left the tavern. Once they were gone he deposited the chessboard in its place, gathered his things, and went up to his room.

He got ready for bed, even though it was still fairly early in the evening, and propped himself up on some of the decorative pillows to read. His thoughts kept drifting away from the narrative—it was a lighthearted tale of young people in love—to the wonderful day he’d just spent.

He’d have to leave Dalaran in the morning, back to Boralus, his guild, and his duties, but he had the night to himself and he intended to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't talk about Karazhan. Suffice it to say that there was a chess-themed event involved that dedicated dungeoneers learnt to loathe.
> 
>  **Varian and Anduin Wrynn:** Varian was king of Stormwind and thus default leader of the Alliance until he died at the beginning of the assault on the Legion in the Broken Shore. His son Anduin (a priest) is now king.
> 
>  **Varok Saurfang:** An orc warrior, who disagrees _strongly_ with the direction in which Sylvanas Windrunner is leading the Horde. The Burning of Teldrassil brought his concerns to the fore, and then during the Alliance attack on Lordaeron Sylvanas used magical chemical weapons on both Alliance troops and her own; the stuff killed people, but then raised them as mindless undead. Saurfang tried to get Anduin and other leaders of the Alliance to kill him, but they took him prisoner instead.
> 
> Saurfang is the father whom Varian Wrynn helped in Icecrown Citadel. His son Dranosh is one of the bosses, having been suborned to the will of the Lich King; once he's defeated Saurfang appears wanting to claim his body, and Varian orders the other Alliance fighters present to allow it.
> 
>  **Gilnean:** A former resident of Gilneas, someone who's been afflicted with the worgen curse. This makes people into, basically, werewolves, of the upright, furry humanoid type--essentially Crinos form, if you're an Old World of Darkness fan. They can appear as baseline humans as well if they choose but most prefer to spend their time in worgen form.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's spectacular art is by [Bones Leopard](https://www.instagram.com/bonesleopard/).

On a dock in Boralus, a demon hunter paced before the gangplank of a ship ready to set sail. Hooves clattered on the wood and he looked up, sighing in relief at the sight of a white doe and the man on her back. The doe hurried up to the demon hunter and all but slid to a halt so that her passenger could dismount; a moment later she melted into Makavi.

“You’re barely in time,” said the demon hunter severely.

“Oh, I do apologise, Mhorduna,” said Ezra. “I’d gotten quite engrossed in my cataloguing project, it’s very tricky keeping everything straight—”

Mhorduna cut him off with a gesture. “I understand that you don’t like these expeditions, but we’re required to contribute at least six people to this one and you were specifically requested,” he said, and turned to the gangplank. Ezra and Makavi followed him. “Healers are always in demand. I’d have brought another if anyone were available. As it is, Makavi, you’ll need to keep an eye on everyone as well.” She nodded. “After that, well, if they didn’t bring potions of their own, we can’t be responsible.”

“Why do the Archangels always request me?” Ezra asked, trying not to sound as if he were grumbling. They were a prestigious guild, but they took to fighting with an enthusiasm that made his skin crawl.

Mhorduna shrugged. “They’ve noticed you’re an excellent combat medic, I assume.”

“I am a _librarian_ ,” said Ezra tartly.

* * *

The alarm came after midnight, and Crowley grumbled his way out of bed. It was another Alliance incursion: Vol'dun, which meant portals because even the fastest windriders couldn’t cross that distance in time. He went out into the warm night and joined the trickle of combatants on the way to the rally point. Halfway there he saw Droxi ahead, and hurried to catch up with her. She glanced up at him in greeting.

“I thought you were out of rotation for a few weeks,” said Crowley.

She shrugged and replied, “Garnek took the spawn to his parents’ so I thought I might as well sign back up. ‘Course that was before I got rousted in the middle of the damn night.”

At the rally point in one of the city’s broad plazas, Mirimë had already set up the guild banner. Crowley propped himself against the low wall surrounding a nearby garden bed and slung his arm over his eyes; Droxi sat on the wall itself. A few minutes later, as the loose groups started to firm up, she nudged him with her foot and muttered, “Don’t look now but Froggie and the Lizard are here.”

Crowley groaned, quietly. “Oh, capital. I’m sure that what this night needed was spending more of my time preventing war crimes than actually fighting.”

“Yeah. Here comes the boss, wonder what she’s after,” said Droxi, in a tone that made it clear she had her strong suspicions. Crowley uncovered his eyes and got to his feet as Mirimë approached, her dragonhawk fluttering at her side.

Their guildmaster looked unhappy. “We’re teaming up with _them_ again,” she said. Crowley sighed; like Droxi, he’d been afraid of this. “I need two to form a unit with Hastur and Ligur.” Mirimë never called them _Froggie_ and _Lizard_ , claiming she didn’t want to risk getting in the habit and slipping.

Crowley grimaced. “I’ll do it.”

“Yeah, sure, I’m in,” said Droxi. “No healers, I’ll make healthstones. When’s Command gonna do something about those two? They’re halfway to rabid and the rest of their guild ain’t much better.”

Mirimë spread her hands out in a helpless gesture. “Thanks, both of you. I owe you.”

“Damn right,” said Droxi, and began conjuring. She had the stones ready, a handful of faintly-glowing green, when Hastur and Ligur came pushing through the crowd. “Hello, midget,” said Hastur. “Crawly.”

“We won’t answer to those in a fight,” said Crowley flatly. “You get yourself killed calling the wrong name, that’s your lookout.” Hastur made a dismissive noise; Crowley considered his duty to warn them fulfilled. “Try not to kill any useful prisoners—this time.”

“You don’t make the rules, _Illidari_ ,” sneered Ligur.

“He doesn’t, but your guildmaster does and they say you’re working with us,” said Droxi.

Hastur barked a laugh. “You two are weaklings. Just try to keep up.”

On the far side of the plaza, mages began to tear holes in the air.

* * *

Ezra stood on deck with his guild tabard in his hands. He’d cleaned it, but it still made him shiver to think that the last person to put it on had been Crowley. Sunk in thought, he didn’t notice Gabriel approaching until he spoke.

Gabriel was tall, handsome, broad-shouldered, everything that Ezra was not. He served the Light in a more martial fashion, but Ezra had to assume he was sincere because he wielded all the powers of a paladin—though, when he thought about it, Ezra could not recall ever having seen the man heal anyone. And being sincere quite obviously didn’t preclude being an overbearing _prat_.

“Well, you all know the drill,” said Gabriel, in the tone of overdone _bonhomie_ that he appeared to think fooled people into believing he was their friend. “We’re in this to do damage, not hold ground. The usual units, and you two—” He pointed at Ezra and Makavi. “—need to keep on top of the healing. Especially you, priest.” Ezra schooled his face to blankness. It didn’t sound the same when Gabriel said it as when Crowley did, even accounting for the difference in language. “We don’t want a repeat of last time, do we? It’s embarrassing to have our support taken prisoner.”

Ezra flushed. As if _embarrassment_ had been the worst to come out of that. Makavi took his hand silently and Mhorduna stepped a bit in front of him. “If you and your squad had protected the healers better, it wouldn’t have been a problem.”

Gabriel gave Mhorduna a condescending smile, but didn’t reply. He turned and strode away, his suit of plate faintly glowing from the number of enchantments on it. Ezra’s hand clenched in the fabric of his tabard. He felt a little sick already. Not for the first time, he wondered if immortal souls could drive their possessors mad. Knowing you could die, and come back—worse, knowing that you could _kill_ and the person you’d killed wouldn’t be forever gone. Would the Horde and the Alliance be so eager to go to war if every person killed in it was gone for good, if they couldn't just stand the pawns back up and restart the game?

He didn’t know, and there wasn’t any way to find out. He squeezed Makavi’s hand gratefully and let it go to pull his tabard over his head.

* * *

Going from the humid heat of Dazar’alor to the chill of a desert night was like walking into a wall of ice. The Forsaken weren’t affected, but nearly everyone else yelped in surprise, or burst into spontaneous shivering. They milled around for a few minutes getting units back together and waiting for last-minute reports from scouts, but soon enough it was time to move.

They met the Alliance near a bridge that had once carried a road through the desert; most of the paving was buried under sand now, but the bridge itself crossed a steep-walled ravine that ran down into an expanse of salt flats. The bluecoats held one end and seemed to be digging in, though if past patterns held it was meant to be a temporary position, just enough to have somewhere to fall back to when injured. The fighting spilled out over the nearby dunes.

Droxi and Crowley followed Hastur and Ligur like ‘strider chicks behind their mother; there was no other way to keep the pair even slightly in check. Hastur wanted to slit the throat of every downed bluecoat they spotted; Ligur preferred to step on wounds and kick ribs. Neither one seemed to give a damn about actually winning the fight. Droxi had to keep her voidwalker out and circling them so that she and Crowley could concentrate on reining in their erstwhile allies in something resembling safety.

It worked reasonably well until Crowley was looking the wrong way and a bolt of moonfire clipped him; he staggered, dazed, and Droxi stopped to shield him while he collected his wits. Hastur and Ligur, of course, didn’t, so in the roar of the fight they were well out of earshot when they stopped as if they’d spotted something. The two rogues exchanged a few animated words and then abruptly faded into the wavering silhouettes of stealth and Crowley lost them.

He hauled himself to his feet, chanting “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” as he did. Droxi turned to look and muttered a Goblin word she’d steadfastly refused to translate for him no matter how many times he pointed out that he was older than her by several centuries.

"They went...roughly that way," he said grimly. "Let's go."

* * *

The three officers of the Archangels led their guild’s advance through the melee. Gabriel strode at the forefront with his hammer ready; to his right the Gilnean druid Michael padded in cat-form and to his left Uriel walked wreathed in lightning.

It was an impressive sight, in its way, but Ezra just felt sick. They only wanted him so that they wouldn’t have to spend any effort on healing themselves, even though all three were capable of it; their fourth guild officer, Sandalphon, was the only one with no such innate ability, and he was back in Boralus in case the fight went badly and the other three needed to recover.

Ezra hadn’t seen any of his guildmates since the fighting started; even Makavi was assigned to another unit of the Archangels’ people. He’d had a number of close calls already, though there was _something_ to be said for being Michael’s support; she was an expert at delivering an unexpected stunning blow that let her finish a target at leisure.

It was sheer chance that he was looking in the right direction when two figures he recognised emerged from the background chaos of the fight: a Forsaken who would have been tall when he was truly alive, and beside him an orc. Hastur and Ligur. Ezra froze where he stood.

He hadn’t told Crowley—told _anyone_ —how they’d gotten him into such a bad position in Boralus. He’d simply turned a corner and seen Ligur standing in his way, grinning, and he’d been too terrified to cast his shield before Hastur had punched him hard enough to addle him. The sight of them extinguished rational thought in a flood of panic. They’d been the ones who took him prisoner, a few weeks before meeting Crowley on the Auberdine dock.

It had taken two and a half days for them to get careless enough that he died.

Gabriel was engaged with a knot of Horde warriors, laying about with his hammer, but Michael and Uriel were still flanking Ezra. The worgen noticed that he’d stopped and followed the direction of his gaze. He couldn’t hear what she said to her companion—he could barely hear anything, not even the clash of weapons around him—but after a moment she and the draenei started to move away. Ezra made himself lurch into motion, managed two unsteady steps, and then Uriel looked back over their shoulder and shouted, “Stay there!”

He watched them hustle away and thought of all the times they’d requested healers from other guilds. Always priests or druids, who wore light armour or none at all, whose strength in healing was easily visible. Who they would leave un-shielded. Ezra wasn’t their support after all.

He was _bait_.

* * *

Crowley would never have thought he’d be happy to see Michael and Uriel of the Archangels on the field of battle, but apparently it was a night for surprises. He and Droxi were actually quite close to Hastur and Ligur when the Archangels fell on them like thunderbolts, ripping them out of stealth to defend themselves. Now all he and Droxi needed was an excuse to not help, and that’d be Hastur and Ligur sorted for a week or so. He glanced around in search of the healer the Archangels no doubt had trailing them—and there the healer was, sure enough. Crowley froze.

Droxi looked too. “No,” she said urgently. “Crowley: _no_. You can’t.”

“Just taking out the enemy’s support,” said Crowley, and took off running as hard as he could.

He spotted Gabriel as he ran, but the paladin was tangled in a melee and not likely to be much help. Ezra stood at the edge of the larger fight, and he wasn’t looking for a way out, or shielding himself, or attacking; instead he was throwing wave after wave of healing magic into the Alliance fighters within his range, his holy Light floating around him like an aurora. Crowley saw Ezra’s head turn in his direction, and the familiar warmth washed over him, carrying away the nagging pain of the moonfire graze.

He wanted desperately to take Ezra by the shoulders and shake him until he developed a sense of self-preservation.

Crowley pounded through the sand and faked a wild slash, panting, “You blessed _idiot_ , what are you doing, attack me!” Ezra hesitated and then a shield sprang up around him. Crowley waited for the shadows to gather.

They didn’t.

Ezra kept pouring healing into nearby bluecoats. “What good would attacking you do?” he asked, sounding bitter. “I’ve served my purpose, I’ve drawn the Horde here.”

Crowley swung at him again; Ezra evaded it easily. “Priest, Hastur and Ligur—”

“I know!” Ezra exclaimed. “I see them. But I can’t leave now, I’m needed.”

“I can’t keep this up, someone’s going to notice,” said Crowley desperately. He could see that the tide of the battle was shifting—in a few moments the Horde would sweep over this point, and Alliance fighters were starting to break and run. He saw a gnomish mage successfully activate her hearthstone in the shelter of her elemental; he saw a kaldora fail to do the same despite the efforts of the large spotted cat at her side. Hastur and Ligur stood back-to-back against the Archangels' assault. They couldn’t win the fight, but they didn’t need to, just survive long enough for more Horde to overtake their position.

And anyone who knew him would know that it shouldn't be taking Crowley, of all people, this long to deal with a priest who wasn’t even calling the shadows.

"Hit me just once," he said, hating the plea in his voice. "Just long enough that you can run. Look, it's over, you can run."

“I won’t, I _can’t_ ,” Ezra said. “We haven’t been recalled, my people are still fighting, I can’t run!”

The wounded body of a dwarf caromed to a stop beside them. Behind Ezra Crowley caught a glimpse of a bear-form druid trying to wade through the fight, with one of his brothers at her side. They weren’t making much headway. And behind himself, there was a shout from many throats of _For the Horde!_

“One hit wouldn’t clear you of suspicion anyway,” said Ezra, a plea in his eyes. “Crowley, please, don’t let _them_ —please just—make it fast, and don’t worry. I’ll see you in Dalaran, I promise. And once I’m down, get back.” The shield around him shimmered out and he didn’t renew it.

Crowley felt his expression harden into a blank mask. It had to stay that way; it wouldn’t be safe for either of them otherwise. He didn’t dare speak, but he nodded.

The yell of the fight faded from his awareness. It was like watching himself from the outside; he dropped one glaive, grabbed Ezra by the wrist, and used the leverage of the grip to swing him face-down into the sand. At least it _was_ sand, not the stone paving of the bridge, as if that mattered. He raised his other glaive and drove it point-first between Ezra’s shoulder blades, with all the strength he could put behind the blow—if he had to do this, it would be as fast as he could make it.

He didn’t wince at the sound-feeling of bone shattering under his weapon. He wrenched it free, scooped up the other glaive, and leapt away. His leathery wings snapped out of the other dimension they normally inhabited for the bit of extra distance they gave him. He landed and forced himself to turn and look.

From Ezra’s body, white light rose like smoke and swirled into the form of a spirit healer. Magic pulsed from it—from him—like the beat of a heart, bearing blessings and healing.

Crowley could feel it, despite having been the one who killed him. He’d never been more glad that he had no more tears to shed.

More bluecoats got away than otherwise would have, thanks to Ezra’s final burst of power. Crowley saw Michael fade into stealth when a group from Hastur and Ligur’s guild broke through to her position, but Uriel fell, coughing dark draenei blood as they went to their knees.

Droxi slipped out of the crowd and hurried over to him. “Just follow my lead, kiddo,” she murmured. Crowley stared at her and she hissed, “Snap the hell out of it!” Then, louder, “What the hell, Crowley? It’s not like you to play with a target like that.”

It took him a beat to put together what she was doing, but then he said, “Just wanted to see if I could make him actually fight, the sanctimonious idiot.” He shrugged. “Guess not.” From the look on Droxi’s face, the roughness in his voice didn’t sound as much like annoyance as he hoped it did.

Behind him, Hastur’s gravelly voice said, “All the bluecoats are soft, but that one’s worse than most.”

_You know him_ , Crowley thought numbly, and turned to face the Forsaken just as Ligur said, “He screams pretty, though. Fun to play with.”

That was when Crowley remembered biting his tongue through one of their stories, about an Alliance priest they’d caught, who hadn’t died for more than two days. At the time he’d been disgusted; now he was sickened, and only sheer force of will kept him from curling into a whimpering ball at the memory of Ezra saying _It was decidedly less than pleasant_. “You two are monsters,” he said at last, his voice tight to the snapping point. “It’s no wonder the Alliance hates us.”

“You’re one to talk, demon hunter,” said Hastur, which was when Mirimë stepped between him and Crowley, and a good thing too.

“They’re setting up the portals back to Dazar’alor,” the guildmaster said calmly. “Crowley, you’re relieved. Droxi, make sure he gets some sleep.”

Crowley jammed his teeth shut on everything he could possibly say and stalked away. He was still shaking when he reappeared in the Zandalari capital.

It was hours before he stopped.

* * *

_In the realm of shadows, Ezra remembered. He’d been here before._

_He didn’t hear the spirit healer’s voice so much as simply understand its words. **You’re here. But this time, not in pain. Are you ready to go?**_

_Last time he’d come so close to answering that question ‘yes’. He’d only said no because he hadn’t wanted to let Hastur and Ligur win. This time was different; this time he had a promise to keep and a thank-you to say._

_**No** , he replied, **I still have more to do. Send me back.**_

* * *

“Ezra, can you open your eyes for me?” Alicia’s voice swam into his consciousness like a fish winding between branches of coral. “You can go back to sleep afterwards. Just try, please?”

Ezra didn’t like to refuse such a polite request, so he set his mind to it and managed to pry his eyes open. He saw Alicia’s face, and behind her the sky—he must be outside, at a graveyard. His fellow priest smiled and said, “Thank you.”

Ezra tried to tell her it was nothing, but instead his eyes slipped closed again and he fell into sleep.

The next time he woke he was indoors, in a bed. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments before Mhorduna said, “He’s awake.”

He turned his head. Mhorduna sat next to the bed, and behind him Makavi had just put down a book. It was one of the rooms the guild kept in Boralus. Ezra attempted to push himself up on one elbow.

“Easy, easy,” said Mhorduna, reaching out to gently hold him down. “You’re going to be weak for a while yet—it was five days last time and this one’ll be longer.”

“What day is it?” Ezra asked. He stopped trying to sit up.

“It’s the second morning since the attack. You came back almost as soon as we got back to Boralus, and you’ve been asleep since,” said Makavi. “Now that you’re awake we can take you to your own rooms.”

“No,” Ezra said. Both the elves looked surprised. “I have a room in Dalaran, the inn there. I want to go there.”

“Ezra,” Makavi began.

“Please, Maka,” he said. “It’s quiet there.” That was even true, though if he were honest with himself, it probably wouldn’t have been enough on its own. _It was paradise there._

“You shouldn’t be alone for at least a day or two,” said Mhorduna.

Makavi pursed her lips, but said, “I’ll stay with him till he’s alright to be by himself.”

“If that’s what you want,” Mhorduna replied. “You’ll recover better if you’re where you want to be.”

“Thank you,” said Ezra.

Mhorduna nodded and stood up. “I’ll let people know and we’ll leave as soon as you can walk.”

It was strange, having to learn his body again, old and new at once. What was worse was the lassitude that came with a sojourn in the realm of the dead. Ezra knew from recent, bitter experience that there wasn’t any way to hasten the recovery—though he could make it take _longer_ by over-exerting himself. He looked at Makavi and smiled. “If you would, my dear?” he said, holding up a hand. She took it and helped him lever himself into a sitting position.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to you in time,” she said quietly.

“I know you tried,” said Ezra, and patted her hand. “He made it quick.” Her face clouded. “I asked him to, Maka. I didn’t want to be taken prisoner again," which was putting it mildly. _I wanted it to be him._

Makavi sighed. “I still don’t like it, but you’re a free man.”

“Thank you,” he said again.

She gave him a small smile. “You’re welcome. Now do you think you can stand up?”


	8. Chapter 8

It took three days for uncertainty to overcome fear.

Crowley didn’t know precisely what he was going to do if he walked into the Legerdemain and Ezra wasn’t there, except that it would involve Hastur and Ligur dying as many times as it bloody well took for it to _stick_. Early in the morning of the fourth day, he rummaged for his Dalaran stone. It prickled his palms with the slightly eerie edge of the Kirin Tor’s magic as he activated it.

He made himself walk at his usual pace on the way to the inn. The weather in Dalaran was always good—what’s the point in magic if you can’t use it to guarantee good weather?—and the doors stood open in welcome. He walked through them and stopped.

Finally he managed to make himself look up.

Ezra sat at the table where they’d played chess, with a mug in his hand and a book open on the table before him. Crowley’s head swam with the relief of it. He crossed the distance between them and, with absolutely no intention to, collapsed to his knees at Ezra’s feet. It was a bad idea and he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. “I thought,” he said unevenly, and couldn’t go on.

* * *

Ezra had just about admitted to himself that he was staring at his book rather than actually reading it when suddenly Crowley was there. The moment of chagrin at not having noticed the elf until he was kneeling at his feet was swamped under the wave of concern that Crowley was, well, kneeling at his feet. Between that and a buried desire to make certain Crowley was really there, Ezra didn’t try very hard to stop himself from setting his hand gently on Crowley’s head. It seemed inappropriate to notice that Crowley’s hair, pulled back into a neat tail, was silky under his fingers, but he was helpless not to. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry to have put you through that. I could help more thanks to you. Please forgive me.”

Crowley’s shoulders heaved. “Forgive you. I’m the one who killed you, priest.”

“Crowley, look at me,” said Ezra. Crowley didn’t exactly shake his head, but he didn’t look up from Ezra’s knees either. Ezra slid his hand down under Crowley’s chin and nudged; Crowley resisted for only a moment. Ezra couldn’t really meet his eyes, covered as they were, but he could feel that they were looking at each other anyway. “You didn’t want to. I forced your hand. Anything you think you did wrong, my…” He stopped to collect his thoughts. “Anything you think you did wrong, I forgive you.” Sitting like this made Ezra feel dizzy, or maybe it was the conversation; he steadied himself on the edge of the table. “Now please, won’t you sit with me?” Crowley swallowed. “Forgive me,” Ezra repeated softly.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Yes, I, nnh. Yes, alright.” Ezra thought again how _charming_ he was when he was flustered, and quashed the thought. It was hardly the time.

“I have something for you,” he said, and cautiously leant down to retrieve the package from beside his chair. By the time he came back up with it, Crowley was beginning to get to his feet. “In fact I had it made, I do hope it’s to your taste.”

* * *

It took Crowley three tries to make it into the empty chair, and when he did he felt as if he’d climbed a mountain. Possibly more than one. Possibly _every_ mountain. “Let’s not do that again. Ever,” he said.

“As you wish,” said Ezra, and pushed the package across the table.

Crowley had to put his hand over his face and just breathe for a moment. Ezra was human; he didn’t know. It was _fine_ and Crowley needed to get hold of himself before he passed the point where he could play it off as lingering worry. He took the package and concentrated on picking the knot out of the twine that held the wrapping closed. Under the rough cloth was a box; Crowley flicked the latch open.

Inside were ranks of chess pieces, rough wood and ivory. Crowley slipped the ivory queen out of the loop that held it and rubbed his thumb over the smooth surface. The box unfolded into a board with squares to match the pieces. “You had this made for me?”

Ezra nodded, one hand fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.

“This is—thank you.” Crowley smiled, and all the tension of the last few days fell away in a rush. In its wake he was exhausted. “I need something to drink,” he said. “Strong drink. In quite extraordinary amounts.”

Ezra smiled as well, and turned a bit to gesture at the barman. “I’m afraid I’m on healer's orders to stick to tea, but please don’t let that stop you. If all else fails, I can always read aloud.”

“I’d like that,” said Crowley, but then the smile dropped from his face. “You asked me not to let _them_. Hastur and Ligur, yeah?” He very much wanted to be wrong.

“Yes,” said Ezra. He sounded calm enough. “It wasn’t at all fast, when they did it.” Crowley tried to hide the way his stomach dropped. “Even in battle, they’ll keep one just hurt enough to try to heal. I’ve learnt not to, it’s only wasting energy. They’re, well, there’s no need to dwell on unpleasantness.”

The barmaid approached to set a glass on the table and Crowley waited for her to leave before he spoke. "They'll never touch you again, priest. I'll make sure of it."

Ezra reached across the table and took his hand. Crowley’s breath caught. “You cannot guarantee that, and I wouldn’t want you to try,” said Ezra seriously. “I won’t ask again, not even—I can come back here. I want you to be safe.”

Crowley tipped his head back and laughed quietly at the ceiling. “Aren’t we a pair,” he said. “Alright. You know your own mind.” He picked up the glass and made a little salute with it. “I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m probably going to get ridiculously drunk, and it’s not going to take long. It’s been, erm, a long few days.” Ezra hadn’t pulled his hand back, so Crowley didn’t either.

Ezra chuckled. “I think you deserve to get as drunk as you like.”

* * *

It was mid-morning by the time Crowley convinced himself to get out of his bed; the Legerdemain had excellent mattresses, and he’d drunk rather more than he should have. It was nice (Crowley fought the Legion, he shouldn’t have cared about _nice_ ) to put on civilian clothes instead of armour, and forgo weapons. He had another three days off the rotation, and he intended to make the most of them.

Ezra was already in the common room when Crowley came down the stairs, his bag in hand. He knew perfectly well what kind of trouble he was in, but it was still disconcerting to feel his insides flip over when Ezra caught sight of him and beckoned, smiling. Ezra looked a little better this morning.

Crowley didn’t have much of an appetite; he never did anymore. It was a moderately common thing among his siblings. But food was fuel, so he asked for firstmeal anyway. Ezra had already eaten, which didn’t stop him from filching some of the fruit that came with the meal.

They’d been sitting and talking idly about nothing in particular for perhaps half an hour when Ezra looked up at something behind Crowley’s head and said, “What are you _doing_?” and Crowley felt a sting on the back of his neck, as if someone had just placed the very tip of a weapon there.

Both of Crowley’s hands were resting on the table. He thought it would be a very good idea to keep them in plain sight.

* * *

“Ezra,” said Mhorduna in Darnassian. “What’s he doing here? Come to gloat?”

Ezra reached for the shadows and said firmly, “Stand down, Mhorduna, I won’t have him threatened.” His guildmaster’s eyebrows went up. “He’s my friend, and he did what I asked of him.” He took Crowley’s hand again, and switched to Thalassian. “I’m sorry, he’s my guildmaster and he’s very protective. I’m explaining.”

“Erm, priest, you’re—” Crowley grimaced and his hand twitched like he’d started to gesture and thought better of it. “Shadows. Might want to…?”

Ezra couldn’t keep from giggling. The shadows _loved_ the concerned look that people tended to get when they giggled. “Oh, I know,” he said. “I’m getting my point across.” He looked back at Mhorduna. “Well? Do we have to come up with something to tell the guards about why we’re fighting?”

Mhorduna didn’t move for a long moment, but then he removed the point of his glaive from Crowley’s neck. “You shouldn’t be wasting energy on fighting right now, and I trust your judgement. But I want to talk to him.”

Well, if nothing else it would be a challenge of Ezra’s linguistic skills. He released the shadows. They were very disappointed.

Mhorduna took a chair from one of the other tables and sat in it. Crowley took in the sight of him and realisation passed over his face. “Brother,” said Crowley, in a rather formal mode. “Ezra mentioned his guildmaster was Illidari as well. Let me buy you a drink.” He waved at the bartender as Ezra translated.

Disappointing as it was to lose the contact, Ezra thought it might be better to release Crowley’s other hand. He sat back, and didn’t miss the glance Mhorduna gave him. “I am, yes. I came to check on him, the in-between is difficult. What’s your name, brother?”

“Crowley. Always happy to meet a brother.” From what Ezra could gather, even the Illidari had tended to separate along faction lines. Crowley leant back in his chair, all but draping himself over it; Ezra was again struck with wonder at how he managed to do that while in possession of a spine. “I hope you had words with the Archangels’ paladin about his people using their healers as bait.” His tone said very clearly that if Mhorduna hadn’t, Crowley would find a way to. Ezra felt himself blush.

“I did, not that it ever does any good,” Mhorduna replied. “They insist on recruiting healers from other guilds and Command allows it because they’re—well, they’re the Archangels. Gabriel told me it was his own fault for not fighting back. I think that from now on he’s going to be on other assignments when they request him.”

It was _exceedingly_ awkward to translate a conversation about himself, but Ezra soldiered on. The barmaid brought Mhorduna his drink. He sipped from it for a few thoughtful seconds before saying, “Ezra, why did you ask him to discorporate you?”

Ezra’s hands worried at one another; he barely noticed. “Hastur and Ligur had seen me,” he said. “I couldn’t run, not with so many still fighting. He suggested it, but I couldn’t. And I knew he’d make it quick.”

* * *

Mhorduna nodded. Ezra had shared the bare outlines of what the Horde rogues had done to him, and Mhorduna and Makavi between them had been able to infer the rest from the way Ezra acted.

That did not, however, answer the question of how Ezra had met one of Mhorduna’s sin’dorei brothers and come to trust him enough to ask for a mercy strike in combat. Nor why the man had done it, and then come to Dalaran to find him afterwards.

“I suppose I should thank you, then,” said Mhorduna.

Ezra translated, and Crowley answered, “Don’t. It had to be done, there’s nothing in it that deserves thanks.” He shrugged. “And I can’t say that my command will do anything to restrain Hastur and Ligur. They’re...well, if it were up to me they’d be in the deepest pit of Argus, but there are too many higher-ups who love the fight.” He sighed and shook his head. “That’s hardly good conversation, my apologies.”

“I appreciate your candor, however,” said Mhorduna. “I won’t deny I’d like to know when we have to worry about those two, but if you feel it would be too much about troop movements I understand.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Crowley. “I want you to know too—but I’ve made oaths.”

And that was very interesting, that Crowley would care enough about Ezra’s well-being to even consider it; they'd all learnt to take their oaths very seriously. “If you find you can,” said Mhorduna. He felt they understood each other quite well.

Crowley nodded, and for a moment none of them spoke. Then the sin’dora said, “Oh!” and leant down to the bag that sat half beneath his chair. Mhorduna tensed involuntarily; Ezra did not. Crowley brought out a rectangular package and put it on the table. He pushed it in Ezra’s direction. Ezra didn’t translate whatever Crowley said to him, nor his own reply, but Mhorduna could tell from his tone that he was surprised and pleased. It was a _gift_ , then.

Mhorduna knew that humans often brought gifts to those who were ill or recovering from illness, and having revived certainly counted—but Crowley was sin’dorei, and more than that he was Illidari. They’d had time to develop a few of their own customs by now, and one of them was exchanging gifts in the first stages of courtship; the gesture said _I will make sure you need never again fear losing everything_. Mhorduna tried to look a question at Crowley, but Crowley’s attention was fixed on Ezra, which was an answer in itself. He was sure Ezra didn’t understand the significance, and wondered if his brother realised that.

Ezra, meanwhile, was removing the cloth that wrapped his gift. Mhorduna felt abruptly as if he were intruding, and though he still had his doubts about leaving Ezra alone with a member of the Horde, he was fairly sure they were more reflexive than justified. He pushed his chair back. Crowley and Ezra both turned to him as if they’d forgotten he was there.

“I’ve got to go. Guilds don’t run themselves,” said Mhorduna, and fought down a smile at the way Ezra sputtered over translating.

* * *

Crowley snapped out of the haze he’d fallen into in time to get to his feet as Mhorduna did. Ezra started to rise as well but his guildmaster kept him down with a hand on his shoulder. “There’s a reason I don’t accept guild promotions,” said Crowley wryly. Not that he was ever going to be promoted very high; Mirimë didn’t much care that he was Illidari, but she had politics to think of.

Mhorduna said, “Farewell, brother,” and offered a handclasp; Crowley took it. He wanted to say _He’ll never be hurt if I can prevent it._ He wanted to say _I have something now that isn’t vengeance_. He couldn’t say either of those things, because Ezra would have to translate and he didn’t think he could stand to see rejection in the priest’s face, and he wouldn't have said such a thing in the Demonic he and Mhorduna shared for all the gold in the world.

Instead he said, “Watch your back.” They were on opposite sides of the war, but they were still kin despite it.

Mhorduna nodded, and said something to Ezra; Crowley caught a word he was pretty sure was _tomorrow_. Ezra replied, in the same tone he used to say _Mind how you go_. Then Mhorduna turned and left.

Crowley sat back down and watched for a minute as Ezra finished unwrapping the book. It was an illustrated herbary, with many of the plants drawn nearly life-sized.

“Oh, oh Crowley, this is lovely,” he said, opening it. Crowley wasn’t good at reading faces anymore, but it would've been difficult to miss the delight; it poured from Ezra like the Light that always surrounded him. “These illustrations!” He traced something on the page with a careful finger.

“Droxi found it at auction,” Crowley replied, and then became aware that he was sitting with his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, which was not in any way how a friend should sit, looking at his friend. He straightened up with a jerk. Fortunately Ezra was too absorbed in the book to notice. “I thought it would be more use to you than to me.”

“It’s a work of art,” said Ezra. After a moment, he looked up. “I was wondering if you had time today—we were talking of reading, and I brought a few books with me to pass the time while I rest, so if you’d like I could read to you, of course I understand if you have to be going, silly of me really but—”

“Priest,” Crowley cut in, rather than indulging his mild (and morbid) curiosity about exactly how long Ezra would go on, “I’ve got three days yet. I’d love to.” He told himself sternly that the smile that broke over Ezra’s face was brought on by the thought of sharing one of his books, and nothing more.

“Oh, lovely!” Ezra exclaimed. “I’ll read the novel you gave me, you said you wanted to hear it. We can go to the Antonidas Memorial, it’s only a few streets away, if that’s amenable?”

_Anywhere you want to go_ , Crowley thought, _whatever makes you smile like that again._ Aloud, he said, “As long as you think you can make it. Keep in mind we’ll have to walk back too.”

“I’ll take my staff, and you wouldn’t mind offering a bit of help if I really need it, would you?”

“Of course not,” said Crowley. He’d been wondering, and this seemed like a reasonable time to bring it up, so he went on, “Does it usually take you this long to recover, priest? It’s hard, coming back from the in-between, but—is it harder for humans?”

* * *

Ezra tried not to grimace and forced his voice to stay light. “Oh, it didn’t take so long the first time. But I channeled the spirit healer, and that’s very draining, and of course it takes longer to recover the more you’ve died recently.” What looked like dismay flitted across Crowley’s face, but before Ezra could be quite sure he turned to the bar and held a brief negotiation for some fruit to take with them.

When that was done—so thoughtful of Crowley to do it—Ezra got to his feet, only to discover that his legs still weren’t quite steady.

“Right, lean on me,” said Crowley, sounding alarmed. He stood up and offered his arm, which Ezra took gratefully. “You’re sure about this?”

“I can’t spend all day sitting in a tavern,” said Ezra.

“I’m pretty sure you can, in fact, spend all day sitting in this tavern, as long as you keep buying tea,” Crowley replied, dry as dust, but he arranged their arms so that Ezra could use him as a support while they walked. They had to wait only a few moments for Sandra to hand Crowley a bag before they were off.

They got a few stares as they went; Ezra supposed it was only natural, a human and a blood elf, much less his plump self leaning on Crowley, who was all lithe lines and sharp angles. The elf ignored the looks. Ezra did his best to do the same.

If he were completely honest with himself, Ezra leant on Crowley more than he strictly needed to. He enjoyed the contact, and his supposed debility was an excuse to indulge. And he was really a bit winded by the time they arrived at the little park. Crowley installed him on the shady end of one of the benches and sat in the sun on the other, swinging one leg up onto the seat to sit facing him. Ezra only glanced at him, afraid that if he let himself look any more he’d end up staring. He missed the feeling of Crowley’s arm under his hand, and scolded himself for wishing Crowley had sat a little closer. He’d just been offering his kind assistance, and here was Ezra getting greedy.

His shadows were laughing at him.

“Well, your audience awaits,” said Crowley, with a broad gesture. He was so theatrical sometimes; Ezra found it ridiculously endearing.

He cleared his throat and opened the book. “I hope my audience will forgive my accent, then,” he said, and looked down to read. “As everyone knows, a young person in possession of wealth is in want of only one thing: a partner with whom to share it...”


	9. Chapter 9

Noon had come and gone and most of their fruit had been eaten when Ezra stopped to clear his throat.

"Your voice is giving out on you, priest," said Crowley in mild amusement. "Let's go back to the tavern and get you something to drink."

“I suppose you’re right.” Ezra marked his place with a bit of string and put the book back into his small bag. Crowley stood up and offered him a hand, but he declined it and got to his feet with the help of his staff.

“I’d like to stop at Aimee’s cart on the way back,” Ezra said. He was walking without leaning on Crowley’s arm, and Crowley attempted to not be disappointed by that. “I quite fancy something sweet.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you can manage?” He had no particular idea who ‘Aimee’ might be. Someone with a cart, who sold sweets, evidently. Crowley hadn’t had much of a taste for them even before Illidan, but if that was where Ezra was going, Crowley would follow him.

“Oh, of course, we passed it on the way,” said Ezra. His voice full of mischief, he went on, “And besides, if I should get into difficulties I’m sure some hero will come and save me.”

Crowley faltered in the middle of a step—uneven paving, surely. Fortunately Ezra didn’t appear to notice. The walk to the cart otherwise went well; Ezra seemed to be steadier on his feet.

As it turned out, Aimee was a quel’dorei baker, with whom Ezra had become acquainted on his first visit to Dalaran if his comments on the changes in her stock were anything to go by. Ezra settled down to browse, leaning on his staff; Crowley turned a little sideways because he could just about handle the delighted noises Ezra made while he surveyed his choices, but not if he had to watch at the same time.

Which meant he was looking in the right direction to spot the paladin coming down the steps from the bank half a block down, and turning towards them.

Rionna was also sin’dorei, and a good person to have at your back in a fight, and unlike many paladins she didn’t treat him like something she’d had to scrape off her boot. But Crowley was quite sure he didn’t want her to see him, as Droxi would say, ‘keeping company with a bluecoat,’ and he had about five seconds to figure out what to do about that.

What he came up with was muttering, “Sorry, I’ll explain in a minute,” picking Ezra up bodily, and setting him back down behind the baker’s cart, much to her puzzlement. He had just enough time to get into what he hoped was a fairly natural-looking position before Rionna spotted him.

“Oh, Crowley, _doral ana'diel_?” she said. From behind the cart Crowley heard a quiet noise of surprise.

“Well enough, and you?”

Rionna stopped and nodded to Aimee, who nodded back. “I think I’ll see one more sunrise,” said Rionna. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, about that contract—”

Crowley held up his hand. “I’m on holiday, Onti. Talk to me when I’m back in Dazar’alor.”

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and said, “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” he said. “ _Shorel’aran_.”

She returned the farewell and continued on her way. Crowley let out his breath. That could have been extremely awkward. He turned back to the cart—just in time to see Ezra being shoved around the corner of it, by Ligur.

The rogue held Ezra by the back of his neck and his upper arm; Ezra’s eyes were wide and Crowley didn’t like the speed of his breathing at all.

“Crawly, fancy meeting you here,” said Ligur, his voice crawling with malignant glee. “I found you a present.” The lizard draped around his shoulders—Crowley wasn’t sure if it was the _same_ lizard—lifted its head and fixed Crowley with a beady stare.

Crowley didn’t want to draw the attention of the Watch unless absolutely necessary, even if he’d had a weapon on him. But he had other resources. He might’ve been Illidari, but he was still sin’dorei, and being haughty was something the sin’dorei had honed to an art. He cocked his head to the side and drawled, “In a neutral city, Ligur? Even you can’t be that dense. When the guards come to deal with you, I'm not going to be any help I'm afraid." He made absolutely no attempt to sound sincere, and spread his hands out to indicate his clothing and lack of weaponry.

Ligur laughed. “Might have known you’d be soft. You—” This to Ezra. “—Rest up. When you’re back in the fight, we’ll find you.” He shoved Ezra away and turned on his heel.

Ezra caught himself before Crowley had to decide whether to help him, and turned to Aimee. “Those, please,” he said, waving his hand at what looked like random. His voice wasn’t steady and his shoulders shook, and Crowley didn’t dare touch him. They’d been fool enough already. Every moment they spent together, especially in public, was a risk and he should never have forgotten that.

Crowley stepped a little closer, close enough to loom over Ezra, and said quietly, “I’ll meet you at the inn.” He had to hope that from a distance it looked like he was making a threat. At least the baker had already seen them talking and it didn’t matter that she could understand Thalassian. Ezra hunched his shoulders and didn’t answer; Crowley turned and strode away.

Back in the Legerdemain he sat at their— _the_ table and ordered a drink. Halfway through drinking it, Ezra shuffled through the door and immediately went up the stairs to the rooms, moving slowly. Crowley finished his drink and ordered another, and even managed to make himself drink most of it before he abandoned the cup on the table and followed.

He scratched at Ezra’s door, then remembered humans knocked and did that instead.

* * *

Ezra sat at the room’s small writing desk, the package of cupcakes lying untouched before him, and wept. _You knew this was coming_ , he thought miserably. _What did you expect? He’s Horde, you can’t have thought you’d just be able to take what you wanted and still keep him safe._

He wasn’t sure how long he waited, but the knock at the door didn’t startle him. _Don’t answer_ , he thought, and wasn’t sure if it was his own words or the shadows’; he was too tired to keep them in check. _Let him go, being near you only puts him at risk._ Ezra sat up straight and tried to rub some of the tears out of his eyes. “Enter,” he said. It wasn’t nearly as firm as he’d have liked.

Crowley slipped through the door and bolted it, and then turned. For a second he didn’t move, no doubt perturbed by the disgusting state Ezra had managed to get himself into. Then he crossed the room in a few quick strides and stopped. He did not reach out, did not even try to touch Ezra. It wasn’t much of a surprise, but it still stung.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Crowley asked. He sounded anxious, and Ezra couldn’t stand it. He wasn’t the one most in danger here; Crowley was. He stood up and stood indecisively in place for a few moments before reaching for his bag. He began to scoop things into it, with none of the care he would usually have taken for his books and papers.

“I should go,” he said. Crowley hissed, as if he were breathing through pain. “This is—this is wrong, I shouldn’t be putting you at risk.” He carefully didn’t look at Crowley, keeping his attention fixed on his own hands. He picked up the book he’d been reading that afternoon and rubbed his thumb over the cover. Crowley had given it to him, and he had no right to keep it; he set it down, not in the bag but on the desk. “I should, I should go back to Boralus. I’m so sorry, it’s been so lovely, I just wasn’t _thinking_. I’ll just, oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t say _my dear boy_. Crowley wasn’t a boy, and he certainly wasn’t Ezra’s, and no matter how much he wanted the implication of the phrase to be true, it wasn’t. But at least he could say he held Crowley dear; that was allowed, surely.

Ezra turned to check the table by the bed and went too fast. His legs gave out and he found himself kneeling on the rug, tears still running down his face. _Pathetic_ , he thought. _If he ever wanted you before he can’t now. Look at you_.

Crowley dropped down in front of him and Ezra nearly jumped. “No. Priest, no, it’s alright,” said Crowley urgently. He set his hands on Ezra’s shaking shoulders and Ezra had to stop himself from leaning into the touch. “You don’t have to be sorry. We both did this, you know that, yeah? I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” He stopped, and swallowed hard, and when he went on his voice climbed and cracked. “If it’s what you really want, we never have to see each other again.” Ezra flinched. “But I don’t think it is.”

“I want this war to be over, I want the world to be safe,” said Ezra. He raised one hand to rest it on Crowley’s. “I want people to see you for who you are, and not what they expect you to be.”

Crowley smiled, though it looked painful. “Not what you want for _me_. What do you want for you? Tell me you want me to leave, priest, and I will. Or tell me to stay.” He drew breath as if to continue but said nothing more, and his grip tightened.

Ezra closed his eyes and bent his head. The shadows were dancing between his fingers, he could feel them. “I shouldn’t ask you to put yourself in danger for me.” He wanted Crowley to leave, to take himself somewhere he’d be safe, because Ezra wasn’t strong enough to send him away; at the same time he wanted nothing more than for Crowley to stay. Even if it wasn’t safe, even if Ezra couldn’t protect him.

“You’re not asking,” said Crowley softly. “I’m offering.”

Ezra took his hand away from Crowley’s; much though he hated to do it, he had to be sure he’d given every opportunity for Crowley to change his mind. “Please,” he said, and took a shaky breath. “Stay.”

* * *

“As you wish,” said Crowley, and froze for a moment in panic. But Ezra didn’t tense up or jerk away, so he didn’t know. Comforting people was not exactly Crowley’s strength, to put it mildly, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Come here, priest,” he said, and tugged gently on Ezra’s shoulders. Ezra let himself be pulled until he was leaning on Crowley’s chest. His tears seemed to have stopped, at least, but his breath was still uneven.

“I know it’s asking too much of you.”

“Don’t pretend your lot would be pleased about this,” said Crowley. “Your druid friend would happily stuff you into a bag and hide you away till you came to your senses.” He wasn’t even sure she’d be wrong to do it, Crowley being what he was.

“Maka? She would never.” Finally Ezra’s voice held something other than misery and Crowley sighed in relief. “It’s your side I’m worried about. You said yourself the Warchief doesn’t just send rude notes.”

“Let me worry about my side. Now come on, up you get. This floor isn’t doing my knees any good.” It had the virtue of being true, and while Crowley was capable of ignoring far more discomfort than kneeling on a hard floor he saw no reason to do so unnecessarily. He coaxed Ezra up into sitting on the bed and took a place beside him so the priest could lean on him if he wanted to—and it seemed he did want to, and Crowley tried not to be pleased about that.

Ezra’s hands still worried at each other, and after a moment he said, “Would it be selfish, to use my shadows more? I could be more, more _effective_ in a fight, but my healing would suffer.”

"You're asking _me_ if it's all right to use dark powers for good ends?" asked Crowley wryly; but he gave the answer serious consideration. "When you can't count on your team to protect you, it's not selfish to protect yourself. If they want you in all your holy Light, they should screen you so you're not getting discorporated while you use it."

“I value your opinion,” said Ezra. His head leant on Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh, Light bless me, I’m so tired.”

“You’re still recovering.”

“Once I’m recovered, I’ll work on controlling my shadows better,” said Ezra, with muzzy determination. Crowley tried and failed not to be charmed. “I promised you, you’ll never have to—help me again, and I can’t keep letting myself be discorporated. All my guildmates say so. They worry, you know.” Crowley made an agreeable noise, though he had a feeling the monologue would continue regardless. “Do you know why channeling the spirit healer makes it take longer to recover? Do you know why so many priests won’t do it?”

“Why’s that, priest?”

“Part of what fuels it, part of what we use to help others, it’s our own lives.” Ezra was mumbling now. “I pay for their lives with mine, and as soon as I’m not there they’re slaughtered anyway, and I’m so tired…” He trailed off, and a few moments later it was clear he’d fallen asleep.

Crowley sat for a minute or two, concentrating on the pattern of the rug in an attempt to get a grip on himself. Then he got carefully to his feet, maneuvered Ezra around to lie on the bed properly, and removed the priest’s shoes. None of it woke him, which Crowley took as proof that he wasn’t as recovered as he’d been pretending. When that was accomplished, Crowley took a breath and let it trickle out again. “There you are, priest. Sleep well,” he said.

He got all the way to the door before it dawned on him that he couldn’t make himself leave.

It was _absurd_. He’d survived Mardum; he could leave a grown man alone in a perfectly safe place to sleep!

Except, apparently, he couldn’t.

Crowley sat back down and took off his own shoes. He leant against the wall at the head of the bed and put one hand down on the mattress between them, his small finger just brushing Ezra’s shoulder, and told himself firmly that he wasn’t going to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **quel'dorei:** High elves. Blood elves used to be high elves, then Stuff Happened and the majority of them renamed themselves. There are still some high elves around, mostly not faction-aligned. We're not going to go into the 'family tree' of elves here because we just don't have that kind of space in the textbox. If you're really interested, [here you go.](https://www.engadget.com/2010-05-04-know-your-lore-elven-evolution.html)  
>  **Mardum:** A literal Hell planet full of demons, where the Illidari were trapped after going there to retrieve a powerful magical artifact they needed in their fight against the Burning Legion. They eventually managed to escape with the item, but more than half of them died in the process.
> 
>  **Nicknames:** Having been convinced that it's not terribly self-indulgent, there's now a sliver of the totally-not-Blizzard-canon, Russian-esque system of nicknames that yr obdt svt has invented for the sin'dorei. The form being used here is to take the accented syllable of the given name and add one of a few approved suffixes. It's slightly daring of Crowley to use it, as it's a form friends use, but as you can see Rionna doesn't object.


	10. Chapter 10

Hunger woke Ezra in the middle of the night. Still half asleep he turned his head into the warm hand on his shoulder.

Then it dawned on him that he shouldn’t _have_ a hand on his shoulder and he startled the rest of the way awake and blinked his eyes open. The dim magic lamp on the bedside table provided just enough light to see that the owner of the hand was Crowley, propped against the wall, sitting more than lying and it didn’t seem terribly comfortable but Ezra didn’t want to wake him. Ezra smiled. In sleep Crowley’s sharp-angled face looked softer.

Thoughts of the disaster of an afternoon crowded into his head and Ezra’s smile faded. The expedition to the park had been his idea, but it would be Crowley who suffered for it if Ligur should realise what had really been happening. Ezra put his hands over his face and worried, but even he couldn’t keep that up for very long; he was starving and there were other bodily imperatives to consider.

The room did have a chamber pot, but Ezra didn’t like to use it in company—even sleeping company—so instead he went out into the hall. One of the rooms radiating from the octagonal landing held the necessary. After his quick trip he retrieved water from his bags and drank it while eating one of his cupcakes. He hadn’t even known he was anxious about the possibility until he got back to the room to find Crowley still there, still asleep. He looked longingly at the small bottle of wine he’d brought, but strong drink was still not a good idea and he knew that perfectly well.

With the edge taken off his hunger he lay back down and closed his eyes.

* * *

It was very early in the morning when Crowley woke. He was not nearly as upright as he’d been when he fell asleep, and there was an arm draped over his waist.

Ezra was face-down and not snoring so much as breathing heavily. In the grey dawnlight he looked ethereal, not quite real, smudged at the edges into something delicate. Crowley didn’t have the heart to wake him, or even risk waking him by trying to slither out from under his arm, so he just stayed where he was, looking up at the ceiling.

He had no idea how long he was going to get to have this, and wasn’t willing to give up a moment of it.

The light had slipped into _morning_ rather than _dawn_ by the time Ezra stirred and rolled onto his side, mostly taking his arm with him. “You awake, priest?” Crowley asked. He felt cold everywhere Ezra was no longer touching him.

“Hmm?” Ezra murmured, and opened his eyes. “Oh, good morning Crowley,” he said.

“Do you want something to eat?” Crowley asked. That had to be a safe topic. “I can go fetch it. I don’t think we should sit in the common room.”

Ezra looked unhappy, but all he said was, “I have some cupcakes, but I’d appreciate something a bit more substantial.” He sat up. Crowley didn’t sigh at the loss of the last bit of contact. “I, ah, thank you. For keeping me company.”

“You’re still recovering,” said Crowley, shooting for casual and pretty sure he was missing. It had been...a long time, since he’d last slept in a bed with another person. He maneuvered himself around to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll go see what they have, shall I?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Right, back in a tick.” He left the room—and went into the one he was actually paying for to stand in the center of the floor and run his hands back through his hair. “What am I doing?” he whispered urgently to the walls. "He doesn't know, it doesn't mean anything, we hardly know each other, what am I doing? He’s _human_. I can’t _do_ this to myself, I can’t do this to _him_!”

The walls didn’t deign to answer. Crowley gave himself three minutes of this, then found a hair tie in his bag, scraped his sleep-tangled hair back out of his face, and went down to the common room to see what might be available for firstmeal.

* * *

Ezra attempted to doze for a few more minutes before giving it up as a bad job. He rolled onto his back and put his hands over his face, sighed heavily, and hitched himself up to sitting, propped against the wall. The track of his thoughts was well-worn by now, though given a few more details by the night’s events.

 **Sharing a bed, are we? You know he doesn’t think of you as you think of him** , said the whispers. Ezra wasn’t always sure how much of this sort of thing was his own real worries and how much was the shadows trying to unnerve him; of course everyone had thoughts they disliked from time to time, but his seemed more...pressing than most people described. **You’re a toy, and no more than that. You’re soft. Even if you weren’t, how could a human _ever_ be more than that for him?** **Sin’dorei, Illidari, he’d never have let those two get the better of him the way you did.**

 _Oh, of course I know,_ Ezra thought wretchedly. _I’m stealing time from my responsibilities, from his too._

**You know it will never be what you want.**

“Of _course I know_ ,” Ezra said aloud. “I _know_ I’m being a fool. I just...I’ll find a way to protect him.”

 **Good** , the whispers said, and subsided. A few moments later the door rattled and opened, and a tray came through it, followed by Crowley. “This is hardly anything fancy, but there’s plenty of it,” he said. He set the tray down on the little table, took a bowl from it, and settled in a chair, with his legs stretched out and the bowl cradled against his chest. Ezra quashed a pang of disappointment that he hadn’t sat on the bed. Crowley jerked his chin at the tray and said, “Leave me some of that fruit, yeah? I’ve never tried it.” Ezra picked up a slice.

“Oh, it’s a—” Ezra paused, realised he didn’t know the word in Thalassian—if it indeed existed—and perforce said in Common, “A _pear_ , it’s a _pear_. I like pears! They don’t have pear trees, in Eversong?” He glanced up, smiling, and caught the strangest expression on Crowley’s face, like a man trying not to show some strong emotion. No doubt politely attempting to conceal his reaction to Ezra being ridiculously delighted with pears.

“No,” said Crowley, “this is a new one for me.” He took his own slice and tasted it. “See why you like it, though.”

Ezra pushed the bowl to him. “Well, I insist, if you’ve never had them before.”

“Thanks. Alright. Got a plan for the day? Nothing too strenuous, mind you.”

“Well,” said Ezra, “I’d been thinking. What we need is something we can both be doing, so that we just _happen_ to be near each other, correct?”

* * *

The thing was that Crowley wasn’t any good at fishing. He never had been—too impatient, too much movement under his skin and in his mind. He’d fidget and fume and get his hook snagged on all sorts of random detritus that wasn’t fish, and eventually he’d give up in disgust.

Possibly that was because he’d never before had a reason to enjoy the experience.

That reason sat on a folding stool a bit around the curve of the pond near the Violet Hold, watching his own fishing line with enviable concentration. Ezra, unsurprisingly, was quite good at this; it would be difficult for a Kul Tiran not to be, Crowley supposed.

They didn’t speak much, and never while looking at each other or when there were passers-by who might be able to overhear, but it hardly mattered. Ezra collected a number of fish, and a few coins that had come up caught in weed bundles. They’d been thrown into the fountain that fed the pond—for luck, apparently, a human custom.

They left in the mid-afternoon, not together; they’d learnt that lesson. If Dalaran had still been the crowded place it was a few years ago, it might have been safe enough to risk it, but it wasn’t and they didn’t. Crowley left first, taking a winding route and stopping a few times to give Ezra plenty of time; the priest wasn’t nearly up to full strength yet.

Ezra hadn’t returned by the time Crowley got back to the Legerdemain—which was _fine_ , Dalaran was a safe, neutral city and nothing had happened, but it meant Crowley had no lead to follow on which room to go into. He settled on his own, leaving the door open a crack so that he’d be able to hear Ezra returning and not have to look through the walls to spot him. Looking through walls always gave him a headache in short order.

* * *

Ezra should have gone straight back; he was still worn out physically and the emotional turmoil of the day before had helped not at all. Instead he stopped in a jeweler’s shop and handed over one of the coins he’d fished out of the fountain. The gold Kul Tiran mark had the anchor of the Proudmoores on one side, and on the reverse words were engraved into the surface: _My love, come back to me_. The work was too neat to have been done by anything other than magic, and Ezra was all but certain he recognised the handwriting. It was hardly a secret that Jaina Proudmoore had loved Arthas Menethil before his fall; Ezra just hoped the coin had been given to the fountain before the rise of the Lich King.

Ezra explained to the jeweler what he wanted; the man agreed readily enough and offered him a price that was more than fair. He seemed sad about something, though Ezra didn’t like to ask what. There was a war on, after all, and it could touch people even here.

From the shop the remaining walk to the inn seemed endless. Crowley was nowhere to be seen and the stairs were just so...long. Ezra stared at them in something approaching despair and hardly noticed when the innkeeper appeared at his elbow until the man spoke. “May I help?”

Ezra blinked at him in owlish surprise for a moment, and took the offered arm. “Thank you.”

Arille replied, “Think nothing of it. I wish only to ensure the comfort of my guests.” They mounted a few stairs at Ezra’s abbreviated pace. Then, in a lower voice, Arille said, “I know it’s not my place to say it, but you and your friend can feel safe in my establishment.”

Ezra stopped walking. High elves weren’t known for their love of Crowley’s people, and no one was known for being fond of Illidari, but Arille seemed sincere for all that. “Thank you,” said Ezra again. “It’s been—”

“Complicated?” Arille asked. “I do understand. My wife is human, you know.”

“Oh! No, we’re not, nothing like that,” Ezra stuttered.

Arille gave him an inexplicably skeptical look, but all he said was, “Shall I have Sandra bring up dinner for you?”

“That would be lovely,” said Ezra, grateful for the change of topic.

They reached the landing and Ezra shuffled to his door. He was disappointed to see that Crowley wasn’t inside, but he didn’t have time to do more than set his things down before there was a knock and the door opened enough to admit Crowley, clutching net bags in his hands. “I bought a few things on my way back,” he said. From the looks of it _a few things_ was every item of food he could find that would keep without being in a coldroom and didn’t need to be heated to be edible.

Ezra couldn’t help but laugh, though to his chagrin it came out as more of a giggle. “We’ll have enough to withstand a siege,” he said. “The innkeeper offered to have dinner brought up.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose you’re a good customer. That’s all right, all this will keep.”

Ezra sat down at the table and laced his fingers together to keep them from fidgeting. “He said—he said to feel safe here. We haven’t really been subtle about our, erm, socialising.” **‘Socialising’, is that what we’re calling it? You spent days at that table, you couldn’t have been less subtle if you’d put up a sign like a goblin emporium. You endangered him.** Ezra sighed. “I’m sorry.”

* * *

“Come on now, none of that,” said Crowley. He was trying for a teasing tone, though softer emotions were not precisely his forte. “I wasn't thinking either. We both should have thought, and now we will.”

Ezra looked up and Crowley wondered how uncomfortable it made him that their eyes couldn’t meet. “Are you still sure about this?” Ezra asked. “Every day, every minute we spend together is a risk. Yesterday I asked you to stay but I was only thinking of myself. Are you…” He trailed off and bit his lip.

"I told you, if you want me to leave I'll go," said Crowley. "But if you think I've got so many friends I can afford to lose one because Sylvanas is in a strop, I'm afraid I'll have to disillusion you. Until this war is over, we've got to be careful, that's all." He dropped into the other chair with what he hoped was an air of finality. "Now did they say what they've got for dinner?"

A knock startled both of them and Crowley glared through the door. The silhouette on the other side held a tray. “I have your dinner,” said the voice of one of the bartenders; Crowley didn’t remember her name but he’d have bet a tidy sum that Ezra did. She rather sounded as if she were laughing. “I’ll just leave it here.” The figure bent and put the tray on the threshold, and then retreated.

“They didn’t, but I suppose we’ll find out,” said Ezra, sounding a bit more cheerful. He went to the door and opened it, paused, and bent to pluck something from the tray. “Would you bring this in, Crowley? I’m afraid it’s a bit much for me as yet.”

“Out of the way, then,” said Crowley, pushing himself to his feet. Ezra obligingly stepped aside and Crowley picked the tray up. From the smell it held mostly fish, along with two wine bottles. As he took it to the table Crowley asked, “What does that say?”

Ezra gazed at the card in his hand and said slowly, “It’s in Orcish, it says ‘Enjoy. This is on the house.’” After a beat, he went on, “They...I think they’re making assumptions.”

“Assumptions about what?” Crowley looked at the table and made a resigned face. “We’ll never be able to eat all this, priest.”

“About. Erm. The, ah, _nature_ of our relationship.” Ezra sounded strangled.

Oh. That’s. Erm. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Crowley, though he was afraid the pause had lasted a bit too long. “We know it’s nonsense, that’s all that important.” Ezra would never, obviously, so it didn’t matter.

Ezra laughed again, nervously. “Nonsense, of course, just nonsense.” He fidgeted with the hem of his tunic.

“Really, don’t worry,” said Crowley, trying to sound reassuring—again, not his strength. “No matter what they’re getting wrong they obviously approve, so they’re not going to fetch any trouble. Sit down and have something to eat, it’s been a long day.”

The door swung open without a knock and a voice greeted Ezra in Darnassian. Crowley was half out of his seat before he recognised their visitor—Makavi, Ezra’s druid friend. She was clearly as surprised to see him as he was to see her, and her voice went sharp. Crowley sank carefully back down into his chair as she glared at him; he didn’t have to half-recognise her words to know she was asking what the hell _he_ was doing here.

It was like courting someone with a large number of protective older siblings, with the added complication that any one of the people involved could discorporate any of the others, under the right circumstances. _Awkward_ wasn’t really the word.

* * *

“Mhorduna knows, Maka,” said Ezra earnestly. “And I told you I asked him to do it.”

Makavi glanced around the room. There were no weapons in sight aside from Ezra’s staff, which was within his reach and out of the sin’dora’s where he lounged in his chair doing a decent impression of feeling at ease; Ezra looked a bit flushed, but not at all wary. She nodded reluctantly.

“What brings you here?” Ezra asked.

Makavi turned her head away. “You know why I come through here,” she said. There was still a magical connection to Northrend in the city.

“My dear,” said Ezra kindly. “It’s been so long. He’s not—”

“I know,” she said, a bit more sharply than she’d intended. “I have to go all the same.” The long flight gave her time to think, even if the only thing at the end of it was the grave, quiet under its blanket of snow.

The sin’dora—Crowley, was that his name?—said something in a carefully casual tone, and Ezra nodded at him. “He says you should have something to eat.”

Makavi looked at the table, consciously noticing the laden tray for the first time, and gave Ezra a grin. “I suppose even for you this is quite a bit. I want to be on my way, though, it’s a long flight. I’ll take something with me?” She even had a proper container for that sort of thing, a carved wooden convenience-box she’d bought on the Craftsman’s Terrace. The woodworker had survived the Burning, though her husband had not. Makavi forced the thought from her mind. “I’ll want to stop and eat in a few hours and this’ll be better than waybread.”

Ezra spoke in Thalassian, translating she assumed because Crowley waved a hand in agreement before applying his attention to a plate. She and Ezra spent a few moments transferring food into her convenience-box.

“Rest if you need to,” said Ezra, as she put the box back into her bag.

“I will, and you too,” she said. “Be safe.”

Ezra smiled, and his eyes slid over to Crowley. “I’ll be fine,” he said.

Makavi said seriously, “You’d better be,” and hugged him. He laughed and returned the embrace. Makavi nodded at Crowley, who returned the gesture, and left.

On her way down the stairs she thought hard about Crowley’s face, when he thought Ezra wasn’t looking. The man was an elf, after all, and some things their peoples still had in common.

* * *

Ezra went to bed early. Crowley didn’t go back to his own room. Instead he sat in the chair until he was tired himself, and then climbed into the bed with as much distance between them as the mattress allowed. He wasn’t leaving Ezra alone until the blessed fool learnt to bolt his door.

He told himself not to read too much into the contented murmur as he settled down beside Ezra. One could not be blamed for what one did while they were asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jaina Proudmoore and Arthas Menethil:** SO THIS WAS A THING. Arthas was prince of Lordaeron--i.e. the country where the people almost all got turned into undead by the magical plague called the Scourge. He took up the cursed sword Frostmourne and eventually merged with the malignant supernatural entity called the Lich King. There's a _whole expansion_ named after this. Partway through that expansion, Jaina and a bunch of adventurers went to try to stop him, and he responded by attempting to kill her. Way to break up, dude.
> 
> Jaina's the daughter of the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras.


	11. Chapter 11

The next few days passed pleasantly. They played chess, and Ezra discovered that when he wished to be Crowley was capable of an aggressive, scream-and-leap play style that won him more than one game by simply being rather disconcerting. Ezra read aloud, though not from the novel they’d started in the park; he wasn’t quite comfortable going back to it yet. The Legerdemain’s staff continued their campaign of mildly embarrassing commentary—rather, Crowley seemed to find it embarrassing, and Ezra hoped that his own reaction gave the same impression. On the other hand, Crowley continued to sleep in Ezra’s room. They didn’t discuss it.

It felt like they were outside of time, but soon enough the real world intruded. The night before Crowley had to go back to Zandalar and the war, Ezra summarily decided that he was recovered enough for something stronger than tea, and they got a bit drunk. Only a bit, as he didn’t wish to risk a hangover, but enough for everything the other one said to be funny.

In the morning Crowley collected the few possessions he’d taken out of his bag—Ezra had spread a litter of pens, papers and books across every flat surface in the room but Crowley seemed to prefer to keep things stowed—and put them back. Ezra stood next to the writing desk and fretted.

“Crowley, I…” Crowley looked up at him inquiringly and he stumbled. “Thank you. For these last few days. I’ve, oh, here.” He handed over the little bag the jeweler had sent.

Crowley took it and picked the lace loose. He spilled the contents into his palm.

The coin hung now in a web of fine wire, the pendant of a necklace. Crowley rubbed it between his fingers with a look on his face Ezra couldn’t identify. “Thank you,” he said.

“It’s from the fountain,” said Ezra. “From when we went fishing.” _He knows that_ , _you great dumpling_.

But Crowley only nodded, and turned back to his bag. From one of the side pockets he took a book, and held it out. “I found this in a bookshop, that day in fact. It’s a scholar’s work, comparing Thalassian and Darnassian. I thought you’d be interested.” He sounded uncharacteristically tentative, and Ezra only just managed to not snatch the book from his hands. He clutched it to his chest. He couldn’t exactly get away with hugging Crowley, so the book would have to do as a substitute.

“I’ve heard of it,” he said. “Thank you. I, ah, I’ll have to be getting back to Boralus soon, of course, but.” Ezra hesitated, but surely Crowley had already worked it out. “I bound my hearthstone here, so I’ll be back as often as possible. Every day, if I can manage it. There’ll be no trouble with keeping the room.” His fingers tapped on the book.

“I’ll be back in the rotation,” said Crowley, rather gloomily Ezra thought. “Had a week off, now I get to pay for it. But I’ll see you, yeah? I can manage a day or two in, say two weeks.”

“That seems” _like eternity_ “like it might be a bit soon.”

* * *

Crowley’s heart fell like a rock but Ezra went blithely on, “It’s taken me so long to recover, they’ll need me.” Something must have shown on Crowley’s face because Ezra said, “But I will be here. Every day if I can, as I said. So if you can come, I’ll be, erm, well I’m sure I’ll show up.” He said the last few words with a forced cheer that Crowley hated.

“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” said Crowley.

“Oh, that’s not what I mean at all!” Ezra exclaimed, and took a step closer. “I’ll be here, and if I’m not I won’t be long. And I’ll remember to bolt the door.”

“Do that, priest,” said Crowley, too softly, and swallowed. He needed to _do_ something. Humans—they shook hands, didn’t they, to show friendship? Crowley held out his hand, and realised he’d made a dreadful mistake when Ezra took it. It took more effort than he liked to stop himself raising their joined hands to his lips. “I’ll check then, when I have the time. I have a stone that links here, the Kirin Tor made buckets of them during the Legion invasion. Try not to get into any trouble.”

Ezra’s grip tightened for a moment before he let go. “Mind how you go,” he said.

“I always do,” said Crowley. “ _Shorel’aran_.” He turned to his bags in the hope that it would hide the way his hand was flexing with the memory of Ezra’s touch, picked everything up without bothering to sling his pack onto his back, and tried not to rush out the door too obviously. If he didn’t get moving, he’d never leave at all.

* * *

A week later, two elves stood and watched yet another training dummy explode into splinters. Ezra said something in an annoyed tone; Makavi didn’t know the literal meaning of it but she’d heard him use it often enough to have gotten the drift.

“I know what I saw,” she said, softly enough that Ezra wouldn’t be able to hear her. He had good hearing for a human, and it wouldn’t do for him to catch this conversation. “It can’t be safe for him.”

“I saw it too, Maka,” said Mhorduna, matching her volume. “You know perfectly well that...my brother won’t harm him.”

Makavi sighed agreement. “No, of course not, but that isn’t what I mean. I’m worried about what he’s doing to _himself_. Look at him, he’s only leaving the training field to sleep and eat. This morning I had to bring him breakfast, he’d forgotten. And he as much as said he’s doing it so he’ll be able to hold his own in combat—for the sin’dora’s sake.” Remembering the sight of the Illidar’s glaive punching the life out of Ezra’s body could still make her lightheaded with retroactive terror. No one knew exactly why some people didn’t come back, but a number of things made it more likely; frequent deaths were one.

Bad deaths were another and Makavi was still amazed that Ezra _had_ come back, the time Michael of the Archangels had found him.

“I’ll talk to him when he comes in for the evening,” said Mhorduna.

“He hates using the shadows,” she persisted nevertheless. “He hates that the only way he can heal with them is to harm someone else first. And the shadows are the Void! It’s not safe.” She’d never been able to decide which she disliked more, the priests’ shadows or the fel power that warlocks and Illidari drew on. They were both unbalancing forces and they made her nervous.

“I’m not dancing with joy myself, but he’s a free man,” said Mhorduna. “He’s an adult, as humans go, and he’s hardly helpless. We can’t treat him like a child just because he hasn’t been fighting as long as we have.” Mhorduna had been a fighter even before joining the Illidari, and Makavi had spent a decade making her living by poking into dangerous places, back before the First War.

“It’s not safe,” said Makavi stubbornly.

“Nothing is completely safe,” said Mhorduna. “Danger can strike from nowhere.”

Makavi made a scornful noise. “Don’t quote Stormrage at me, boss.” Prophesized saviour or not, dealing with Illidan Stormrage had been like chewing on glass.

Mhorduna gave the odd little shrug that seemed to serve for rolling one’s eyes among the Illidari, but he said, “Sorry. I’ll talk to him. At least get him to slow down.”

“I guess it’ll have to do,” said Makavi. Out on the field, Ezra set himself to face his new training dummy and raised his hands.

* * *

A few more days passed before Ezra made it back to Dalaran properly. He knew he looked nearly as bad as he felt; it had not, perhaps, been clever of him to neglect the development of his control over the shadows for so long, and trying to wrestle them into compliance now was exhausting.

Amisi looked up from the bar as Ezra materialised. “Good to see you,” she said. Ezra made a tired attempt to return her smile.

“And you, my dear,” he said. He began to turn in the direction of the stairs.

“A moment,” she said. Ezra paused to allow her to come to his side. “Arille and I discussed it, and if you’d like we’re of a mind to change your room.”

Ezra’s brow furrowed. “I—of course,” he said. “I do hope there hasn’t been any problem.”

“Oh, no,” said Amisi. “Let me show you.” They climbed the stairs, but when Ezra would have gone onto the landing she continued up. The upper floor had fewer, larger rooms, and Amisi stopped at one. “If you’d like,” she said again, opening the door.

Ezra stepped through it. The room had a noticeable division between a sleeping area—with a significantly larger bed—and a sitting area including several chairs and even a small sofa. Floor-to-ceiling doors let onto a balcony that looked out over the crafter’s district. “This is lovely,” he said. “But I don’t understand.”

“You may have noticed we’re not drowning in guests,” said Amisi. “This room is empty and we’d like it not to be.”

“Well,” Ezra said. “Well, I do appreciate it, but on the condition that I pay the increased rate.” It wasn’t as if money were any great concern. It took him only a few moments to convince her; he had a feeling she objected for form’s sake more than anything else. Finally she left, with a promise of help bringing his other possessions up when he wanted it.

Ezra set his bag down and sank into the sofa. It was very comfortable, and the comfort paradoxically made him feel worse. It would be days, nearly a week, before Crowley would be here to enjoy it with him, and who knew what was happening to him in the meantime?

Ezra put one hand over his eyes and bit his lip, trying not to cry.

* * *

Crowley was in the process of packing up his bag when Mirimë scratched at the doorframe. He turned.

“Someone’s asking for you,” she said, in a faintly unhappy tone. “Special assignment.”

“Asking for _me_?” he said, puzzled.

“By name,” she confirmed.

The goblin waited, with clear impatience, in the common area of the guild’s cluster of tiny rooms. “You Crowley?” he asked. His voice held the disdain Crowley had gotten used to. Mirimë hissed quietly; she hated it when someone was rude to her people.

“Yes,” he said.

“Blightcaller wants to talk to you,” said the goblin.

Crowley did not want to talk to Nathanos Blightcaller—for one thing, he’d wondered since he found out what it meant why anyone would choose to go by _Blightcaller_ —but he also wasn’t eager to draw negative attention to himself. “Lead the way.”

And that was how Crowley discovered that Varok Saurfang had escaped Alliance custody, which was probably more important than going to Dalaran to see Ezra.

But it didn’t feel that way.

* * *

Mhorduna didn’t need Makavi to be worried about Ezra. He spent his days killing training dummies and his nights, Mhorduna was all but certain, in Dalaran waiting for Crowley; it had been nearly a month and, if Ezra’s behaviour was anything to go by, there had been no word.

Every evening before he left for Dalaran, Ezra would come to ask for assignments.

“Please, I need something to do,” he insisted.

“Ezra, I’ve told you no,” said Mhorduna. “I’m not risking you again so soon. You were out for a week and a half, you need some time or it’ll only get worse.” Assuming he could come back at all.

“You’re the one who’s always worrying about how many healers are available,” said Ezra.

“Yes, and having you off your feet for another two weeks isn’t going to help with that,” Mhorduna replied.

“Mhorduna—”

“No.”

“But I—”

“I said _no_.” Mhorduna sighed. “I understand you’re worried, but getting discorporated again isn’t going to do anyone any good.”

“Fine,” said Ezra tightly. “In that case, I’m going to Dalaran. Send to the Legerdemain if you need me for an assignment. Otherwise that’s where I’ll be.”

“Ezra,” Mhorduna began, but when Ezra raised his eyebrows in challenge he shook his head. “I’ll let you know if we need you.”

“Please do,” said Ezra, and all but marched away.

* * *

Mhorduna didn’t spend much time on the _Fel Hammer_ anymore; with the Legion gone (he still couldn’t believe they were gone), there was less need to. On the other hand, in the headquarters of the Illidari no one shied away from him as he walked past. Even being a guildmaster and worthy of respect, many people only saw his eyes, his fel-marks, and treated him like he shouldn’t be there. But he had good friends, a new family to watch over, and he was lucky for that.

He was chatting idly with one of the armourers when one of his sisters approached him. He’d seen her before, in passing; she was sin’dorei, but he didn’t care about that here of all places. In the Demonic they'd all learnt, she said, “Are you Mhorduna?”

“I am,” he said.

She motioned to the side and they took a few steps away from the armourer’s workbench. She opened her belt pouch and took out an envelope. “Our brother asks you to give this to Ezra,” she said, offering it.

Mhorduna hesitated, then took it. The woman nodded to him and walked off. He turned the envelope over, but there was no address, no name, no marking of any kind. Even the wax seal had no symbol.

But he was pretty sure he knew who it was from anyway.

* * *

Ezra had given up trying to read several days ago, and there was only so much sleep his body would accept, so he spent most of his time sitting on the sofa, worrying. The shadows flitted around him constantly, as they had since the four-week mark passed five days earlier. His door was bolted, though he was beginning to ask himself why he should care.

A knock at the door shook him out of his thoughts. “Who’s there?”

“Ezra, open the door,” said Mhorduna’s voice. “I have something for you.”

Ezra hurried to the door and unbolted it. “An assignment?” he said, before Mhorduna was even fully in the room.

“No,” said Mhorduna. The shadows rippled, displeased. “Look at you, how could I send you into a fight like this? No, I have a message.”

Ezra took the envelope warily and opened the seal. The paper inside had a splotch of something in one corner, and a single sentence, in Orcish. _I’ll be there as soon as I can_. He looked up from it as Mhorduna took a chair.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded. The shadows flexed against his control, waiting to see if the answer displeased him.

“Calm down, Ezra, and sit.” Ezra glared, but sat. “Another Illidar gave it to me in the _Fel Hammer_.”

“When?”

“Just today. But I can’t tell how long it’s been waiting.”

Ezra sat heavily back in his chair and his shoulders slumped. The shadows retreated, muttering discontent. “I didn’t...I didn’t know whether to worry that something had happened to him, or that he’d gotten...bored.”

The pause that followed had an odd quality to it, and when Ezra looked up Mhorduna was watching him. “You don’t have to worry about him getting bored. You were exchanging gifts, I saw it.”

“Well, yes,” said Ezra. “It’s very kind of him and of course I can afford to reciprocate.” Mhorduna knew how well-off Ezra’s family was.

Mhorduna said, “You care for him, and not only in the way you care for your friends.” Ezra opened his mouth to protest but—he couldn’t, could he? Saying he felt only friendship for Crowley would be a lie. “You need to know this. For Illidari, gifts like that, exchanged like that, it’s what we do when we’re courting. People started doing it because we’d all lost so much. He wouldn’t be doing it if he thought of you as a friend and nothing else.”

“Oh,” said Ezra. “Oh, my.” He didn’t know what else to say. The pattern of his interactions with Crowley was rearranging itself, making a new shape.

“This means something to him, Ezra, I’m sure of it.” Ezra nodded, distracted. “I’ve got to get back. You have one more week, and then I’m putting you back in the rotation, all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Ezra replied, and barely noticed Mhorduna taking his leave.

* * *

It was late, the streets of Dalaran as dark as they ever got. Crowley didn’t try to stick to the shadows; the mages loved their magic lamps and it would be glaringly obvious to anyone who happened to see him what he was doing. He just walked, slower than his usual pace, and trusted that most people were asleep or at least in their own homes and workshops.

No one sat in the common room of the Legerdemain. Even the bartender was half-asleep on his tall chair, but he came to attention fast when Crowley walked in. Crowley waved at the stairs in an attempt to communicate that he had a room and intended to go to it, but the bartender said, “If you’re looking for the priest, he changed rooms. It’s the one on the second floor with the balcony facing the crafter’s district.”

Crowley couldn’t decide whether to be amused or angry; the man was only doing his job, and it was not exactly a secret from the Legerdemain staff that he and Ezra were friends. In either case he didn’t have the energy to snap. “Thanks,” he said, and turned to the stairs.

It seemed to take forever to climb the two flights, but finally he stood in front of Ezra’s door and knocked.


	12. Chapter 12

Ezra opened his eyes and wondered muzzily what had woken him. A few moments later the sound came again, someone knocking. Tempting as it was to roll over and go back to sleep, it might be something urgent. If so he fully intended to mock Mhorduna about it until the end of the world, however, after all the fuss he’d made about keeping Ezra out of the field. He wasn’t as quick as he might have been about getting to his feet and crossing the room. He waved absently at the lamp near the door to brighten it—so convenient, these magic lamps, he intended to look into purchasing some—and drew the bolt. “Really, Mhorduna, it’s only been two—”

Crowley had propped himself up with a hand on the wall next to the door; his battered bag dangled from his other hand. “I’m sorry to wake you,” he said.

“Crowley!” Ezra exclaimed. He stepped back in invitation, hoping fleetingly that it wasn’t obvious how recently he’d been crying; there was nothing to be done about the state of the clothing he’d fallen asleep in. Crowley shuffled over the threshold, moving like an old man; in the gentle light of the lamp he looked terrible. A livid bruise covered the upper quadrant of his face, spreading above and below the blindfold covering his eyes, but more than that he was clearly exhausted, worn to the bone. He let his bag drop as Ezra hastened to close and bolt the door, and fell onto the sofa like someone had taken him out at the knees.

“My dear, what in the world, are you all right?”

“Saurfang,” said Crowley. “He’s escaped.”

Ezra drew a startled breath. He’d heard no rumours to that effect, which meant it was being kept very quiet indeed. His family’s sources of information had extended to Stormwind even through the years of Kul Tiras’ withdrawal from the Alliance.

Crowley ran his hand through his hair and tipped backwards as if he’d pushed himself, until he was leaning so far he was looking at the ceiling. “He’s planning to move against Sylvanas. She sent Rangers for him, but they. Well, they’re dead now. I think she really believes he got the better of me, but it’s so hard to tell with her. She treats everyone like they’re disappointments.”

Ezra sat on the sofa as well, thinking furiously. It couldn’t be good for Sylvanas to be thinking of Crowley as a disappointment. But there was a more pressing issue; he reached out on impulse and paused at the last moment. “Can I heal you? Will it make anyone suspicious?” Crowley didn’t want him to worry, but Ezra was perfectly capable of reading between the lines. The Rangers were dead because Crowley’d helped fight them.

“It’s fine,” said Crowley. “I’d have had it done already but I didn’t want to delay.” Ezra nodded, and reached for the Light. He tried not to enjoy the way Crowley’s head tilted into his touch as he skated his fingers over the bruise to ease it away. “I’d've sent a better message but I was out in the middle of bloody nowhere and there’s a lot of nowhere east of Stormwind. We had to track him across half the continent, at least it felt that way.”

“Well. I can’t say I wasn’t worried, but your punishment has already happened.” Ezra forced a smile. “I had a present for you, but I drank it I’m afraid.”

Crowley made a sound that was too tired to get all the way to a laugh. “Don’t be sorry. We can get wine.” Despite his rational mind, Ezra’s heart sank a bit. Surely Crowley should have been disappointed that there wasn’t a present, if what Mhorduna said about gifts were true. Crowley groaned. “I suppose I should go back down and see about getting a room. I haven't slept in—I don't really know. Too long."

“Don’t be silly,” said Ezra briskly. “When they offered me this room, there was a card on the table welcoming their esteemed _guests_. Plural. They think you’ll be sleeping here and I’m sure they’ll be terribly offended if you don’t.” He tried for a jocular tone, though he wasn’t sure how well he managed it.

“I’m not turning you out of your bed, priest, what do you take me for?” Crowley asked, but he made no move to stand up.

“That bed is more than large enough for both of us, and possibly a few more people besides.” Ezra hesitated, but he felt the situation warranted being a _little_ underhanded. “You’re exhausted, my dear, and I don’t like to think of leaving you to sleep alone in such a state. It really would make me feel better if you’d let me keep an eye on you for the night.”

The short pause that followed had the feeling of someone trying to make words make sense, and finally Crowley said, “If you’re sure.”

“Positive,” said Ezra.

Crowley nodded and bent forward with underwater slowness so that he could reach his boots. His clever fingers fumbled over the laces for long enough that Ezra couldn’t stand to watch it anymore and knelt to help. Once the boots were dispensed with, Crowley lurched to his feet. Ezra watched with no small concern as he made his way to the bed and collapsed onto it fully clothed. “‘M sorry I was late,” he said.

“It’s all right, I understand,” said Ezra, but he doubted Crowley heard him.

Ezra sat on the other side of the bed with his back to the wall and looked down. Crowley’s brow was furrowed and the corners of his mouth a little downturned, but Ezra didn’t care. After a few minutes, sure that Crowley must be far gone in sleep, he reached out and brushed a few strands of hair back out of his face.

**Mhorduna was wrong. He doesn’t care, not the same way we do.**

Ezra knotted his fingers together in his lap. _But he brought me a present. He doesn’t know, but he did. He’s here._

“Thank you for coming back to me,” Ezra whispered. “Thank you for staying.”

“As you wish.” The words came out in a dreamer’s mumble, barely understandable, but they felt like an answer, and Ezra smiled. He moved carefully so as not to jostle the bed as he got properly into it, trusting the blankets to keep him from crowding Crowley in his sleep. He felt like he could _rest_ , for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Crowley slept like the dead and woke in exactly the same position he’d been in when he fell asleep. The angle of the light suggested it was still morning, which surprised him a little; he had a feeling there would be a few more early nights in his immediate future. Assuming Sylvanas didn’t want to send him on another assignment. He grimaced at the thought.

It wasn’t that she was undead. Crowley knew a number of Forsaken who were perfectly pleasant people. But Sylvanas radiated disdain for the living in a way most Forsaken did not, and had even before she burnt Teldrassil. Crowley frankly doubted that being undead was something elves could bear in the long term; none of the Forsaken elves he’d met were among the pleasant ones.

He sat up and ran his hands back through his hair, dislodging his hair tie’s tenuous grip. He felt like he imagined humans felt when they were old, like every motion took three times the effort it should. Definitely a few more early nights.

Beside him Ezra grumbled in his sleep and rolled until he was brought up short by Crowley’s hip. Crowley looked down at him, bemused; he must’ve had one hell of a sense of where the warmth was, to be seeking it out even unconscious. Crowley hated to risk waking him, but there were some things even elves couldn’t ignore. He eased away and padded out onto the landing in search of the necessary.

When that was taken care of he went down to the common room to ask for food, and didn’t realise till he was down there that he was still in his stocking feet, having neglected to put his boots back on. But he’d dealt with more embarrassing things in his life, and besides most people didn’t look at him closely enough to notice. Going back up the stairs wasn’t nearly as bad as he remembered from the night before, which probably had something to do with not being half-dead of fatigue.

Ezra would probably want a few minutes to reconcile himself to wakefulness before firstmeal arrived, so Crowley went over and shook him gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, priest. There’ll be food.”

Without appearing to wake, Ezra wrapped his arms around Crowley’s and rolled a bit. “Mine,” he said, not very clearly. Fortunately Crowley had excellent reflexes and managed to catch himself with his free hand before falling onto Ezra.

It was...well. Crowley just needed to get himself loose before Ezra woke up for real and realised what he’d done; he knew he couldn’t bear watching Ezra startle and flinch away. He wondered what Ezra was dreaming about, but now wasn’t the time to puzzle over it; he could spend time pretending the word applied to him _later_. It took a few moments of patient, careful prying to loosen the hold on his arm and he backed away quickly to the nearest chair. He sat and put his hands over his face. It wasn’t for him, not ever, so best not to think about it.

Ezra stirred, his hand moving over the blanket as if searching for something. A few moments later he shook his head and propped himself up on an elbow. “Oh, good morning, Crowley. You’ll have to excuse me, I didn’t mean to be a bad host.” Something in his voice sounded like relief.

“I’ve been awake all of a quarter of an hour, besides I’m the one who broke your rest. There’ll be food.” Crowley tilted his head back. “I have time to eat, then I probably need to be going. I told Mirimë I needed sleep but I’ve got to talk to her. Haven’t quite decided what I’m going to tell her. I just didn’t want you to think, erm.” He backed up and started again. “I said I’d be here and I don’t like to break a promise.”

“Well, thank you,” said Ezra. He hesitated, and the quality of the silence made Crowley think he needed to pay attention. “You...you came back. It’s a gift.” Crowley firmly suppressed his flinch. “I drank the wine, but I’ll find you something.”

“You don’t need to do that.” Truth be told, Crowley wasn’t sure his heart could handle it. He pulled the cord with the coin on it out of his shirt. “But thank you again for this. It’s soothing.” He’d needed some soothing, a few nights. In Common they called it the Swamp of Sorrows and Crowley thought there was good reason for that.

“But I _do_ need to,” said Ezra earnestly. “I want to. The gifts—they, I know they mean something. I’ve been told.”

Crowley froze. “Ah...who, erm, what did they…” He watched himself fumble for words as if he were a third person in the room.

Ezra looked down at his hands, which had started playing with the edge of his tunic. “I’ve been told. That it’s an Illidari custom.” _Oh_ , Crowley thought distantly, _Mhorduna told him._ “For, for courting.” He stopped talking. Crowley found he was holding his breath. Ezra said in a rush, “And I don’t mind if it is. I’d—I _want_ it to be.” The last sentence was almost defiant.

“Don’t,” said Crowley, and the word hurt his throat. He could see Mardum, what they did there. What they _were_ there. “Don’t say that. You don’t know.” The paralysis broke and he scrambled out of the chair. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean—” _to make you feel like you owed me anything_ , but he couldn’t force the words out.

Ezra was quiet for a long, awful moment. “I understand,” he said at last, and he sounded quite composed but Crowley could see the shadows thickening in the air around him. He sat up, then stood, reaching for his belt pouch on the bedside table. As he opened it he went on, “I really do. Of course you didn’t mean it. I’m sorry to have brought up such an awkward subject and to have inconvenienced you.” He took out a stone and began to roll it between his hands, the familiar motion of activating a hearthstone. “If you’d be so kind, tell the innkeeper someone will come for my things.”

Crowley didn’t manage to bludgeon his brain into understanding what Ezra was doing until it was too late. “No,” he said, as the light of the transport flared. He took a step, reached out, but his hand met empty air and the fading tingle of magic. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly to the empty room.

There was a paper on the table, and it looked familiar. Mechanically Crowley picked it up. His own spiky handwriting stood on the page, some of the words blotched and nearly unreadable, in spots as if it had been rained on. It was crumpled at the edges and he could picture Ezra’s hands holding it, clutching it. He folded it along its worn-in lines and wished he could still cry.

A few minutes later he sat and put his boots back on. He picked up his bag and went down to the common room to let the bartender know someone would be around to collect Ezra’s things. His hearthstone took him straight back to Dazar’alor, and he went to find Mirimë, to tell her what had happened on the Eastern Continent and to ask for something to do.

He was perfectly calm.

* * *

When he appeared in the Boralus inn, Ezra had to take a moment to control his shaking well enough to walk. **He didn’t mean it, we _told_ you he didn’t mean it**. He stomped out the door paying no attention to anything beyond the bare minimum required to not bump into anyone.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he spun to swipe it away.

“Hey, it’s me!” Makavi exclaimed.

Ezra gaped for a moment. “Maka,” he said finally.

“Ez, are you alright?”

There was no possible answer to that. “You’re going to Northrend soon, aren’t you?”

She studied him for a moment. “In the next few days,” she agreed warily.

“When you go through Dalaran, could you stop at the Legerdemain for my things? And I should send some money for the inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience?” Makavi said. “What’s going on, why did you leave things in Dalaran?”

“Have you seen Mhorduna?”

“Ezra, what’s going on?”

“Maka, please, I just...have you seen Mhorduna?”

Makavi bit her lip and Ezra tried not to look pleading. After a moment, she said, “He was going to the quartermaster’s office.”

“Thank you. Stop at my rooms before you leave for Northrend and I’ll give you a purse for the people at the Legerdemain, alright?”

“Yes, but Ezra—”

“I’ll see you later,” said Ezra, and hurried away. She didn’t follow him, thankfully.

He caught up with Mhorduna near the docks, and later he would think that he went about it all wrong; storming up to his guildmaster and demanding an assignment _right now_ was undoubtedly not the best approach. And of course Mhorduna said no, and of course Ezra was angry at him anyway— **He put the idea in your head, if he hadn’t you could have gone on as you were** —and it ended with him coldly saying, “Well then, I don’t think there’s any point in discussing it further,” and stalking off, ignoring Mhorduna’s protests.

He’d got perhaps twenty yards away when Gabriel fell into step beside him. Ezra didn’t even glance at him at first; he was in no mood to be condescended to. But then Gabriel said, “Sounded to me like you’re looking for a new guild.”

Ezra stopped short, to the mild consternation of the man who’d been walking behind them. “I won’t heal for you,” he said. “I want to be _in_ the fight.”

Gabriel smiled, his broad charming smile so little like the crooked, sideways, endearing things that Crowley produced, and clapped Ezra on the back. “What do you know. You’re ready to play with the big boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Saurfang's escape** : There's a quest line for Horde players in which they get sent to track Saurfang after his escape--if you can call it that when your captor comes and opens the cell door for you--from Stormwind. About halfway through they meet a troll named Zekhan, who gives them the option to either go with him to help Saurfang, or not. If not, they go back to Orgrimmar and report to Sylvanas. If they decide to help, they instead go with Zekhan to meet up with Saurfang, whereupon the _other_ person Sylvanas sent catches up. The player, Saurfang, and Zekhan fight a group of Dark Rangers, then Saurfang does the thing where he beats the player up in order to make it look like they failed to capture him and they go back to Sylvanas to tell her he escaped. In-game, the PC gets picked for this because they're the Champion of the Horde; in this story, Crowley was sent because he's Illidari, so fewer people will care if he dies, and because certain people who don't like him are high in the Banshee Queen's esteem.
> 
>  **The date:** We did not plan to have this chapter post on Valentine's Day, but it seems weirdly fitting that it worked out this way.


	13. Chapter 13

It had been three months and Crowley was tired.

He hadn’t been this tired since the last push on Argus, when there was never enough time to sleep or eat or just _stop_ for a while; he’d been doing everything he could to not have to think, and ignoring the concerned looks he got from Droxi and his other friends as a result. Mirimë had started to get cagey about giving him new assignments at around the two-month mark and he wasn’t sure how much longer hinting at doing some missions freelance was going to work. But that was a problem for the future; for now it was working, for certain rather broad definitions of _working_ , in that he was almost always too tired to obsessively play over that last disaster of a conversation, examining all the places in it that he’d been an idiot.

Besides, everyone knew that the Alliance was gathering its forces for a major excursion into Zandalari territory, and once that got into full swing nobody would get any rest for as long as it lasted.

The Alliance ships came in on the tide one beautiful afternoon. Dazar’alor was as cool as it ever got, and the guild could take their positions in relative comfort. They even had shade, courtesy of a line of ornamental trees that towered like everything else in the Zandalari capital. They were in the second rank of the defense, on the broad stairs that led down to the plaza held by Ra’wani Kanae and her people. No one expected the paladin to hold forever; each line of defenders was meant to slow the advance and inflict casualties before falling back, and they’d run out of Alliance before they ran out of lines.

That was the theory, anyway.

Crowley and the other Illidari had an excellent view of the fight; they were atop the wall the stairs mounted, the better to land at the attackers’ rear once they were committed to engagement. Their retreat was going to be more difficult, but they were the ones who’d come _back_ from Mardum and once you’d evacuated from Hell, anything else was hardly worth mentioning.

Crowley watched over the parapet as Kanae fought. It was messy, as any fight that size had to be, and he was too far away to make out any guild or unit insignia. It didn’t really matter; anyone who came up the stairs would be Alliance, and a valid target. He could only get the broad strokes of the fight, and occasionally some spectacular bit of magic would rise out of the chaos for a moment. He saw moonfire lancing from the sky, and what looked like a mage committing suicide by fireball to take a group of attackers with them, and a warlock’s dreadlord picking someone up and hurling them hard enough to bounce. The gold-white flashes of healing magic were nearly constant from a small cadre of Alliance priests, and another floated in their midst, wreathed in shadow. The contrast made Crowley think of Ezra, with his Light always surrounding him. The shadow-priest down in the plaza seemed to be made of darkness, and even at this distance it was clear they were one to be wary of.

It was hardly the time to be thinking about Ezra and he shook his head sharply. Beside him Celebiriel gave him a glance. “What?” she asked in an undertone. Crowley shrugged.

“Trying to get a sense of what they’ve got,” he said. She clearly didn’t believe him, but then Kanae went down, badly wounded or discorporated outright, and the attackers regrouped. A line of casualties trickled back to the ships, not as heavy as they’d hoped.

The Illidari ducked below the parapet as the Alliance advanced. They heard the bluecoats' charge signal and came to their feet, waiting. Seconds crawled past while the bluecoats got thoroughly engaged, entangled in defenders, unable to change their focus.

At last the flare went up, whistling as it ascended, and they leapt. They weren’t demon enough to be able to fly, but they could glide, and break falls.

Most of the Alliance casters were staged near the back of the bluecoat formation, which meant they were relatively close to the Illidari. Crowley was near enough to the group of healers that he could see through the shadows surrounding the priest at its centre.

Ezra.

 _Oh, no_ , Crowley thought, and then there was no time for thinking.

* * *

Ezra was aware that his new guildmates had a betting pool going on him—on when he would lose control of the shadows, specifically. He didn’t care, and didn’t care _that_ he didn’t care.

They’d all lose the bet; he had lost control already, as far as he could tell.

He’d hardly slept the last three months, and more often in a camp cot or a bedroll than a bed. The Archangels went where the action was and they went as often as they could, and as long as Ezra was available they took him along. They didn’t attempt to coddle him, unlike _some_ people. And if he was sickened by the savagery of the fights he ended up in, that wasn’t a problem; he could ignore it and go on.

No one was surprised when the Archangels were selected for the attack on Dazar’alor. It would have been folly to not take them, and whatever Anduin Wrynn might think of the war privately, he was prosecuting it with flair. Ezra was not exactly pleased; nothing much pleased him lately. But he was satisfied, and the shadows giggled with glee at the prospect of a whole city full of targets.

The orders were to fall back when wounded rather than risk discorporation; to fall back when low on spell-energy. Ezra didn’t intend to do either of those things.

When the ships had been loading, he’d seen the Them in the crowd. He’d ignored them, and they’d ignored him, and that was as it should be, he was sure. He thought they were behind him as his group moved towards the second line of defense, but he didn’t have the attention to spare for checking. It didn’t matter anyway.

During the fighting against the Zandalari paladin Ezra had seen figures, or at least heads, above the parapet of the level their stairs climbed to. They weren’t visible as the Alliance advanced, which made him suspect some kind of surprise strike in the offing.

Some of the heads had had horns, visible even at a distance, which made him further suspect Illidari, and the shadows had leapt upon the idea. **We could see him. He might be there. If he’s there we could _see_ him. We could make him feel like we do. **

_I don’t need to see him. It would only be a distraction._ Ezra quickened his pace to catch up to Gabriel. “I think there are ambushers up there,” he said.

Gabriel looked up, and of course no one was visible. He laughed and said, “Fear not, Sunshine, we’ll keep the monsters out from under your bed. But it’s good that you tried.”

Ezra nodded. He’d learnt quickly that this guild’s officers weren’t amenable to argument.

They charged. The ascending Alliance line met the descending Horde. For a few moments the lines jockeyed for position, then settled into real fighting. At the top of the stairs someone fired a shrieking flare. And from the overlooking walls came the Illidari, falling like the demons they’d fought to destroy. Ezra and a few other people who had breathing room shouted warnings, but the ambush was well-timed and the line couldn’t rearrange itself quickly.

But that wasn’t Ezra’s problem. The people in heavy armour were responsible for keeping him and his fellow casters safe, so they could concentrate on pouring damage into the enemy and healing into their comrades. He wanted to turn and scan the Illidari for Crowley. The shadows wanted him to. He bit his lip and kept casting.

From further up the stairs came shouts of alarm as a small group of physical fighters made themselves into a spearhead to punch into the Alliance line, coming straight for his group. Their position was rapidly becoming untenable. For all that, however, the Horde line was wavering; they just wanted to take some support out before withdrawing. From his place in the line Gabriel roared, “Healers, _advance_!” He was barely audible above the clash of the fight. Ezra spun, throwing shields around his fellows as fast as he could.

“Go!” he shouted. The able-bodied started up the stairs; those who’d overspent their energy began activating hearthstones. Ezra had left his in Boralus as he now did routinely. He didn’t want an exit.

A second flare rose from the top of the staircase. Ezra turned his head to check his flanks, and as he turned back metal glittered in the air, spinning towards him.

* * *

Crowley couldn’t _do anything_. He could not interfere with the defense, could not do anything to lessen the threat. He’d sworn loyalty to the Horde, and Ezra had to have known the risks when he came to Dazar’alor. So Crowley ground his teeth and fought whoever was in front of him. He was distracted and he knew it, but knowing didn’t help.

The fight wasn’t long, wasn’t meant to be, and he could feel the line crumbling well before the flare went up. Ezra was moving with his group, and he was just as effective as Crowley had thought he’d be while watching from the parapet.

Celebiriel landed next to him, her wings folding and vanishing as she did. “That priest,” she said. She was panting with the exertion of the fight and the strands of hair that crept out of her helmet were dark with sweat. “Let’s hit him and get the hell out.”

“What? No!” but she was already going, and Crowley cursed and went after her. She got tangled with a bluecoat in plate who was guarding the healers, and Crowley managed to get between her and Ezra just as she ducked under the death knight’s swing and came up to bury the point of one glaive in the gap between the woman’s gorget and her helmet. Celebiriel shouted, “‘Ware glaive!” and time slowed to a crawl as she drew her arm back and threw.

She was aiming for Ezra, and Celebiriel’s aim was _excellent_. Crowley had seen her hit targets the size of a coin from across the training field. He didn’t have time to think over whether it was a good idea to lunge into the glaive’s whirling path.

The impact drove the breath from his chest and the blade went through his cuirass like an arrow through paper. It clattered to the steps next to him as he went to his knees. Celebiriel stared, aghast, and from behind him Crowley heard Ezra scream, “ _No!_ ” He turned his head with glacial slowness to see Ezra lifting off the ground again, dark energy pouring from him, the shadows becoming so thick they seemed to absorb and bend the daylight into a corona.

“Crowley!” Celebiriel shouted.

“Get out!” he called back. She could still make it, but not if she tried to retrieve him, or his body. Shouting turned out to be a bad idea; something let go in his chest and his breath got abruptly much harder to draw. Celebiriel hesitated for a long moment, turned, and leapt away.

Crowley always thought that it was a blessing not to be able to remember how much this kind of thing hurt—right up until he had to do it. Then he couldn’t imagine ever being willing to risk it again. His left arm wasn’t working, and every laboured breath stabbed him as painfully as the initial hit had done. He fumbled for his hearthstone...

But the Alliance line was still moving and Ezra was not; they were on the verge of leaving him behind. He didn’t seem to notice, or care if he did. Bolts of shadow chased the retreating Horde, and people hit by them went down and didn’t get back up. It was terrifying and wonderful simultaneously.

The last of the Horde got out of Ezra’s range and the shadows around him wavered. Crowley had seen priests do this before; it was no surprise when the shadows flickered out entirely and Ezra fell. His feet touched the ground and he kept going, collapsing in a heap. He was in no danger, only exhausted, so at least Crowley’d got that right.

He couldn’t stand up. The steps between him and Ezra looked like an insurmountable mountain; Crowley took the deepest breath he could and began to surmount them. Movement, especially the awkward three-limbed creep that was the best he could manage, wasn’t doing his bleeding any good, but he was going to discorporate anyway so it didn’t matter.

He got to within arm’s length of Ezra before he couldn’t get any further. Ezra’s eyes were open, but he didn’t turn his head to look and Crowley assumed he was still dazed. He didn’t know if Ezra could hear him, or understand, but his vision was starting to drop out at the edges and that meant it was now or never. “I never meant to hurt you,” he said with all the voice he could find—which wasn’t much. “I’m so sorry. Please be safe, priest. _Dalah’surfal ana nah_.”

He wasn’t sure whether the last part made it out of his mouth before the darkness of the in-between rolled over him.

* * *

Mhorduna jogged at the head of the Them along the questionably-safe corridor the Alliance held from the ships. There weren’t any Horde fighters in it, but that didn’t mean no one was going to shoot from outside it. The fighting had moved to the top of the long stairway, but as the Them approached Mhorduna saw a shadow priest about halfway up flare out in a burst and crumple. At his side Makavi cursed. “That’s Ezra,” she snarled. “Those bastards! His guild are leaving him.” She melted down into cat-form and Mhorduna put a hand onto her shoulder.

“Wait.” A figure pulled itself up the far stairs, slowly and painfully, and Mhorduna could see the fel power in it even at this distance. “And that’s Crowley, or I’m a murloc. Maka—'' Mhorduna hesitated. Though it was officially discouraged, there were Alliance fighters who would take the time to damage a discorporated body beyond usefulness, and only rarely did they receive any punishment for it. “Go get his body out of the way. Hide it if you can. I’ll handle Ezra.”

She glanced up at him. “On it, boss.” She wavered and faded, and as soon as he stopped concentrating Mhorduna lost sight of her. He was glad to give her something to do that wasn’t thinking about how much she hated being responsible for healing in a melee. Maka had lost guildmates to Deathwing in a fight she’d been healing, and Mhorduna strongly suspected one of them had been more to her than a comrade.

Mhorduna turned to search for a stretcher team, incidentally giving Makavi time to work, and by the time he got to Ezra’s side Crowley’s body had _mysteriously_ vanished. He knelt. Ezra’s head turned. “Is he alright?” Ezra asked, but before Mhorduna could answer his eyes closed. Mhorduna sighed.

He turned Ezra over to the stretcher team and directed them back to the ships and the portal being maintained for the wounded. A moment later Makavi shimmered back into view at the top of the steps. “All right. Let’s catch up, we’re due to reinforce the front line,” said Mhorduna, and the Them hurried forward.

* * *

Ezra woke to light that looked like late afternoon, and Mhorduna in a chair beside him. The room had three more beds, unoccupied. He closed his eyes for a moment to take stock; he was tired, but it wasn’t the all-encompassing weariness of returning from death.

“Drink something, Ezra,” said Mhorduna. He offered a cup and Ezra sat up to drink from it. His mouth was dry and tasted terrible; the water soothed it.

“Thank you,” he said, and didn’t know what else to say.

“You’re welcome,” Mhorduna replied. “The battle went well enough, if not as well as we hoped. Your guildmates were slow on the charge.” Ezra grimaced at the slight emphasis Mhorduna put on _guildmates_ and tried to hide the expression in the cup. “ _We_ didn’t suffer any losses. Maka doesn’t like having to heal, but she’s good at it. She’s down the hall, resting.”

“Is she alright?” Ezra asked in some alarm.

“She’s fine. I took a bad hit and she pulled me back. She’s paying the price for it, that’s all.” Mhorduna smiled. “She can’t bear to let anyone go, not if she can help it. Just as reckless as you are.” The smile faded and he said seriously, “You’re dangerous when you release your shadows, Ezra, but I prefer your Light.”

Ezra looked down at the cup and nodded. Silence stretched between them.

“I didn’t see it, but people were talking about what happened,” said Mhorduna gently. “It’s rare for one of the Illidari to misjudge a threat like that.” He paused, and Ezra raised one hand to cover his eyes. He’d been hoping his memory was wrong, that the shadows had been taunting him. “I had Maka hide his body. It was all we could do.”

Ezra opened his mouth to say _You shouldn’t have taken such a foolish risk_ , but the words wouldn’t come. Mhorduna waited. Ezra shook his head. “Well. I have other wounded to see to. Your guildmaster’s not here but I’ll see if I can find someone.”

“Mhorduna,” said Ezra.

“We miss you, Ezra,” said Mhorduna, and left.

Ezra turned the cup around and around in his hands. He remembered Crowley telling him something, something _important_ , but he couldn’t quite piece together what it had been.

It was evening by the time Gabriel came to see him. There were undoubtedly still sleepers in nearby rooms, but Gabriel didn’t lower his voice. “Hey, that was a nice job yesterday! Could’ve been great if you hadn’t let yourself burn out. Gotta work on pacing yourself, buddy.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, looking pleased. “You’ll have plenty of chance tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Ezra asked, startled.

“We’re hitting them while they’re still disorganised. King Rastakhan is dead and his kid hasn’t formally ascended yet.”

“Gabriel, I need a day,” Ezra protested. “The shadows are—restless.”

“I’m sure you can handle it,” said Gabriel, his tone noticeably cooler.

“I need a day,” Ezra repeated firmly. “It’ll be better for the guild if I’m rested.”

Gabriel stared down at him and Ezra wished he’d had time to get out of bed before the conversation started. “Don’t talk to me about what’s better for the guild, Sunshine, I am the Archangel _fucking_ Gabriel.” His eyes met Ezra’s and Ezra jerked his chin up defiantly. “I don’t have room for deadweight. Shut your stupid mouth and be ready to go in the morning, or you’re out, got it?”

“Well then,” said Ezra, “I suppose I’m out.” The thunderstruck expression on Gabriel’s face was, he had to admit, extremely satisfying. “I’ll have the tabard sent round to your headquarters.” He waited with malicious politeness for Gabriel to respond.

It was fascinating to watch Gabriel’s natural arrogance spin itself into a shield. “Fine,” the man said. “You want to be soft, priest, I’m not stopping you.”

Ezra fought not to grimace at being called _soft_. He waited a beat and asked coolly, “Was there anything else?”

“We’ll hold your position,” Gabriel said, “for someone who takes their oaths seriously.” He turned on his heel and stalked out. Which was an answer in its way, Ezra supposed. He sighed and leant back. The bed really wasn’t very comfortable and he was thinking about just going home for the night. Or, well, not home, but his rooms here in Boralus. _Home_ was somewhere else now.

He laced his fingers together over his stomach and stared at the wall opposite the bed, and suddenly Crowley’s voice, rough and pained, spoke a sentence in his ear. It was a simple enough sentence, only three words, predicate, subject, copula: _dalah’surfal ana nah_.

It wasn’t literal, but Ezra’s early Thalassian texts had used a conventional translation.

I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, we are not responsible for the quality of Blizzard's conlanging, OK?
> 
>  **Argus:** Once a utopian world and home of the draenei, Argus was conquered by the Burning Legion, dragged into the hellish Twisting Nether, and turned into the Legion's stronghold. The last part of the campaign against the Legion took place there.  
>  **Dreadlord:** A type of demon summoned by warlocks. They are humanoid, with heavy armour that may be actually part of their bodies.  
>  **Deathwing:** The leader of the Black Dragonflight, corrupted by the influence of the Old Gods (essentially Cthulhu and company) into the Big Bad of the Cataclysm expansion.  
>  **Rastakhan:** King of the Zandalari trolls, the final boss fight of the Battle of Dazar'alor raid. He gets killed and his daughter Talanji becomes queen.
> 
>  **What's up with the shadows:** Priests do their thing with the Light; Holy priests are mainly healers and can't do much damage to anything. If you want a priest to do damage, you make them Shadow. They basically melt faces, control minds, and suck life out of enemies to heal allies. The problem is that the shadows are the Void, wherein live the Old Gods, and mortal minds Aren't Meant To Go There. The shadows have a mind of their own - possibly mind _s_ \- and occasionally talk to their wielder. In theory, working with them too closely or losing control can mean that the shadows take over entirely.


	14. Chapter 14

Crowley came back to wakefulness slowly. He couldn’t have pinpointed the moment he became truly conscious, but eventually he realised he was looking at a low ceiling. He was in a bed, which he found slightly surprising; on balance he’d rather expected to come back at the graveyard on the outskirts of the city. Or maybe he had. Any civilised people would have someone posted there in the wake of such a battle, specifically to recover those whose bodies were too badly damaged to return to. And whatever else the Zandalari might be, they were aggressively civilised.

He turned his head and saw Droxi, curled in a chair meant for a taller person and reading a book.

“You look terrible,” he croaked.

Droxi sighed, closed the book, and said, “Yeah, look who’s talkin’. The fight was yesterday, we found your body stuffed under a bush—no we don’t know how it got there—and the bluecoats killed Rastakhan.” Crowley sucked in a surprised breath. “Now that you’re up to date—what the hell happened, kiddo? Celebiriel’s having fits.”

Crowley grimaced. “It wasn’t her fault, tell her I’m alright, would you? Or if she wants to she can come here and I’ll tell her myself.”

“Okay, but that’s not answering my question. What. The hell.” Crowley’s hand went to his chest without his volition and he was relieved to find the coin there. Droxi tilted her head back and sighed at the ceiling. “It was your priest, wasn’t it? He was there and Cele was going for him.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Can you get me some water?

Droxi stared at him for long enough that it started to get uncomfortable before she said, “I’ll get you water, but Crowley...don’t do this to me. You’ve been so tired, kiddo. I was afraid you weren’t comin’ back.” Her voice was unsteady.

“Well, I did,” he said, for lack of anything better.

“Don’t think this gets you off the hook,” she said firmly, and got out of her chair. “Be right back.” She left. Crowley rubbed the coin between his fingers and thought about how little she was going to like it when he told her he wanted to go to Dalaran.

* * *

Droxi yelled at him, very softly, all the way to the portal room near the peak of Dazar’alor, and then through the similar room in Orgrimmar, and then along the streets to the Legerdemain, and then up the stairs. By the time they got to a room—not the same one he’d had last time, nor thankfully the one Ezra had had—Crowley was leaning heavily on her shoulder. He would have liked to sit in the common room, but there was no way to fool himself into believing he didn’t need a bed. He’d been worn out weeks before the battle, and now was recovering from discorporation; he wasn’t sure he could sit in a chair for more than a few minutes without falling over.

As she sat him on the bed Droxi wound up her lecture. “We’re going to send someone to check on you every day, and you better be here, got it?”

“I will,” Crowley said.

She sighed one more time. “You _better_.” She got up on her toes to kiss his cheek and said, “Feel better, kiddo.”

“It’ll just take time,” he said. She shrugged agreement.

Once she was gone, Crowley thought hazily that he should get up and go bolt the door. But lying back on the bed was so comfortable; he’d just rest for a minute first.

* * *

The healers in the infirmary didn’t want to let Ezra go, but in the end there wasn’t much they could do to stop him. He rushed through the streets, the words still ringing in his ears. Literally _you are my love_ , with the permanence-nuanced version of the copula, rather than the locatative and situational version. If Ezra concentrated on the difficulties of translation rather than the meaning he might manage to make it to Dalaran, to start work on _finding Crowley_ , before he drove himself to distraction thinking about what an idiot he’d been.

**You drove him away. He loves us and you drove him away.**

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he muttered. Fortunately none of the other people on the street were paying any attention to him.

**No sense looking for him. He’s thrown himself down a well by now. Or in front of another glaive. If he came back at all.**

Ezra only briefly considered going to his rooms to pack before discarding the idea. He had enough for a few days in his room at the nearby barracks and if he needed to stay away longer he could always send for whatever he’d left behind.

His half of the little room had developed the clutter that always seemed to accumulate anywhere he stayed. He pawed through his belongings for his personal hearthstone; he’d never re-bound it to Boralus, since his family stone led here anyway.

No sign of his roommate, which meant he couldn’t be scandalised by what Ezra was muttering as he searched. He’d grown up around ships, and therefore sailors, and he knew all the words even if good manners usually prevented him from using them.

He couldn’t find the damned hearthstone. For lack of anything better to do he started throwing things into bags, just to get them out of his way. But the stone wasn’t _there_. He must have taken it somewhere and lost it, and not noticed. Maybe the shadows had made sure he didn’t notice, it would be just like them.

Fine. Just _fine_. He’d take the portals instead. It would be a longer trip, but not a prohibitive one, and surely someone at the Legerdemain would have an idea of how to get a message to Crowley, and Ezra could apologise and maybe Crowley would be able to forgive him.

He picked up his bags and rushed out. He barely noticed that someone was leaning against the wall as he stepped into the street again, until Mhorduna said, “Ezra.”

He stopped, but only because it occurred to him that Mhorduna might be willing to carry a message if he asked abjectly enough. “I don’t have time,” he said. “If you see him—”

“I thought you might be missing something,” said Mhorduna, and held out a hand. A hearthstone sat in it, cushioned by a guild tabard. “Two things, really.”

Ezra barely resisted the urge to snatch the stone away. “How did you get that?” he demanded.

“Gnoklu went in a month or so ago and picked the lock on your chest,” said Mhorduna placidly. Ezra tried and failed to be angry; he didn’t have the space for it in his head. “Ezra, I wasn’t joking when I said we missed you. The Archangels left you behind in Dazar’alor.”

“I told Gabriel to get stuffed,” said Ezra. “Erm. Not in so many words.”

Mhorduna’s eyebrows went up. “Good for you. You can have these.” He shrugged. “You can have the hearthstone alone. I’m not holding it for ransom, I just wanted to make sure we had a chance to talk. When you ran out of the infirmary like Sargeras was on your tail I thought it might be time.”

Ezra’s hand darted out and grabbed the stone. He hesitated, and took the tabard a little more slowly. “I have to go, I can’t—I can’t _wait_. Not right now.”

“I know,” said Mhorduna. “Before you passed out in Dazar’alor, you asked me if he was alright, do you remember that?”

Ezra shook his head. “Thank you. Boss.”

“Four days should be enough to get started on getting a message to him.”

“Yes, all right.”

“I’ll check the _Fel Hammer_. I doubt he’ll be there but I know of someone who might be able to find him, if I see her.”

“Thank you, but I have to _go_ ,” said Ezra desperately.

“Elune light your path,” said Mhorduna. Ezra nodded, and rolled the stone in his hands until the magic took him away.

* * *

Droxi sat with her back against the wall. It was the kind of paranoid you got when you worked with demonic forces regular-like.

Garnek wasn’t expecting her home till morning; by then she thought she could afford to leave Crowley on his own here. It’d been some time since he’d discorporated last, and this had been a simple one, so he wouldn’t be down for more than a few days. She’d learned very early in their acquaintance that he didn’t take well to anything he could construe as being coddled. Better to leave him to recuperate in peace as soon as it was safe.

She was poking morosely at a plate of fried mushrooms when someone hearthed into the clear spot near the door. The man was barely solid before he was rushing for the bar.

Crowley’s priest.

“ _You_ ,” said Droxi. All the suppressed worry of the last three months coalesced into fury and she was out of her chair and advancing on him before she had time to realise what she intended to do.

He was taller than her, and she did not give one solitary damn for that fact.

The priest turned at the sound of her voice and Droxi saw him recognise her. “Is he back, is he all right? Please, is—”

“What the _hell_ did you do to him?” Droxi snarled. “He’s been trying to get himself killed for three months!”

He raised a hand to his eyes and said unsteadily, “I was too. I didn’t understand.”

“You didn’t understand _what_? You didn’t understand that he would _literally_ die for you?” She laughed but there was no humor in it. “You give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn’t kick your ass right now, bluecoat.” She could feel magic prickling in her fingers, waiting to be woven into something that might knock sense into this idiot’s head. The bartender, an elven woman Droxi vaguely recalled from when she’d spent a lot of time in this place, was watching them warily.

Crowley’s priest dropped his hand and met her eyes. “I...I was told that he was courting me.” Droxi would’ve liked to say she was surprised. “And I told him and…”

He trailed off. “And. _What_?” Droxi demanded, with her last shred of patience.

“And I, I said that I would be glad if it were true.”

"And that's why he came back to Zandalar looking like he'd been dead for a week? Try again."

“I _did_ , I swear I did, but he said he didn’t _mean_ it and I. I was so angry. And I left.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me!” Droxi shouted. She was rapidly approaching the point of not giving a damn if she got her own ass kicked by the Watch as long as the priest took some lumps first and sparks jumped from her fingers. “He _loves you_!” It had to be love. Nothing but love could’ve produced this level of sheer stupidity.

“I know that _now_ ,” said the priest, his voice climbing in agitation. “He told me. In Dazar’alor. And I was half passed out, I wasn’t even sure it had really happened, but it doesn’t _matter_. I would have come here anyway, even if he didn’t want to see me, to make sure he was all right. Because it doesn’t matter if he hates me now. I love him.” He swallowed hard, and the tension went out of his shoulders. In a much softer voice he went on, “Now if you want to hit me, go ahead. I deserve it.” The bartender, who’d been edging towards the door, stopped.

Droxi took a deep breath, and then another. At a more conversational volume she said, “You two are _epic_ idiots.” She folded her arms and tilted her head, studying him. He looked back with a hangdog, pleading expression she’d just _bet_ made Crowley fall all over himself to fix whatever had gone wrong. “He’s upstairs. Third on the right of the landing. Make sure he gets some rest, the guild’ll be checking on him.” She paused. The priest was all but vibrating with desire to run for the stairs, she could see it. “If you _ever_ hurt him again, bluecoat, I will powder that hearthstone and kill you as many times as it takes. Got it?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you, I would _never_ —” But she didn’t get a chance to find out what he would never before he vanished up the stairs.

Droxi sighed heavily. “Sorry about the fuss,” she said to the bartender.

The woman held up a gold coin and waggled it. “Three eyes says I don’t see them for 24 hours.”

“Nah, set the over-under at 36 hours,” said Droxi and the bartender went to the chalk the odds on the slate behind the bar.

* * *

When Ezra knocked, the door creaked open a bit. _Let it be that he’s forgotten to bolt his door, and not that something awful has happened._ The doorway felt more a forbidding threshold than any he’d crossed in his temples. He stepped softly inside.

The heavy curtains were drawn. Ezra called a wisp of light to his hand, just enough to make out broad outlines: Crowley lay on his back, crosswise on the bed with his feet still on the floor as if he’d sat down and fallen asleep that way.

Ezra stood there just looking for a long time. At last he bolted the door and went to sit in the chair next to the bed, dismissing his light. He sat and listened to Crowley’s soft breaths, thanking the Light for every one, and eventually he fell asleep.

* * *

Crowley woke to darkness and something bothering him. He lay there looking at the ceiling for quite some time before he realised what the problem was: he could hear someone else breathing, too slowly to be Droxi. Which was—almost certainly not good, though if someone had wanted him dead (again) they could have killed him as he slept.

If it came to a fight, he’d lose; his reflexes were dull and he felt as weak as a new-hatched ‘strider, and the closest thing he had to a weapon was the folding knife in his belt pouch. So pretending to sleep wasn’t any use and he might as well just find out what was going on. He levered himself up to a sitting position. There was no point in making a light; his dark vision was excellent and if his visitor’s wasn’t he’d just be throwing away an advantage, for all the good it would do him.

Someone was sitting in the chair next to the bed.

For a moment Crowley didn’t recognise his unexpected visitor, and then he did but couldn’t make himself believe it. “Ezra?” he said, nearly under his breath. Then louder, “Ezra.”

Even when he was recovering Ezra’d been a light sleeper, and Crowley knew from experience that those chairs weren’t very comfortable to sleep in; Ezra stirred, mumbled something, and lifted his head from where his chin had rested on his chest. “Crowley,” he said.

“Priest, what. Are you really here?” Crowley asked, feeling off-balance in a way that had nothing to do with his physical infirmity.

“I’m sorry, I understand you don’t want me here,” said Ezra. “I just, your door was unbolted and I didn’t want to leave it.” He stood as he spoke. “Now that you’re awake, I’ll be on—”

“No, don’t,” said Crowley urgently. He bolted to his feet—and immediately sat back down, lightheaded. “Please don’t go.”

Ezra came over to stand before him. “Be careful, my dear, don’t try to move too fast. I won’t go if you’d rather not.” _My dear_. Crowley clutched the phrase to his heart like a dragonhawk defending its cache of shiny stones. “I’ll have to leave in the morning, your guild will be checking on you.”

“You’re here,” said Crowley, in an attempt to convince himself it was true.

“I...had to see you. I needed to see you’re all right.” Ezra shook his head. “I didn’t even think to bring you a present.”

Crowley must’ve heard that wrong. “You don't have to bring me presents, priest. I never meant to make you feel like you did.”

“What I feel is not for you to control,” said Ezra.

“I shouldn’t have,” said Crowley softly. “I knew you didn’t know what it meant. I just.” He turned his head so he wouldn’t have to see Ezra’s face when he confessed. “I liked—I liked pretending. That you did know, that you could ever. Ever want this.” He made a vague gesture that would have to stand in for _my scarred skin, my ruined eyes, the taint in my blood_ , because he couldn’t say those things.

Ezra laughed. “My dear, I can’t see what you’re waving at, but it hardly matters. I think you misunderstand me—I think we misunderstood each other for some time—so let me be clear. You deserve to hear it too. _Dalah’surfal ana nah_.” Crowley’s lungs stopped working. He tried to convince his heart to pump more blood to them but it was otherwise engaged.

“Don’t,” he said, and knew he was being a fool. He should take what was offered, and keep it as long as he could, so he’d have the memory to brood over when Ezra came to his senses. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it. I can’t bear it.”

* * *

Crowley sounded miserable and Ezra didn’t know what to do. He sat on the bed and didn’t think he was imagining that Crowley swayed in his direction. “Please, don’t fret yourself, you need to rest. If you don’t want me to, I won’t say it. But not saying it won’t change what I feel.” He paused, but Crowley had said it and it was only right that Ezra return the favour. “What do you suppose I think? How can one of the sin’dorei want a human, and one of my age at that? How can someone so good and brave want me? I’m weak, I’m _soft_. I liked to pretend too.”

Crowley said wryly, “If that was you being soft, priest, I don’t want to see you when you really go to war. Also, shut it, you’re perfect.” He said it with such conviction that Ezra could almost believe it.

“That was me without you,” said Ezra. “Anyway, my dear boy, you’re wrong. You’re the perfect one.”

Crowley’s laugh sounded like it was startled out of him, but before Ezra could be hurt he said, “I’m positive you remember what that means, and I just don’t have the stamina. Not today.” He leant over until his forehead rested on Ezra’s shoulder.

Ezra turned Crowley’s face so he could see Ezra’s sincerity. “Not today, and not tomorrow, and for all I care never as long as I can be near you.”

“I need to sleep. How long can you stay?”

“I have four days, but I shouldn’t stay in this room after dawn—we don’t know when your other guildmates will be here to check on you.” He slid one arm around Crowley’s waist and tried to guide him to lie down properly. “Now rest. I’ll be right here. I’ve taken quite a liking to that chair.”

“Don’t be daft, there’s plenty of room,” said Crowley. A moment passed. “Please.”

Ezra smiled, and hoped Crowley could see it. “If that’s what you wish. But sleep now. I’ll leave early, and tell them to bring you breakfast. You need someone to look after you.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Crowley. It sounded like a rehearsed line more than a protest. “‘Ve already got Droxi fussing.”

“You needn't worry about that, I spoke to her and she's gone home. I’m not saying you can’t manage on your own, but you were there for me. Let me be here for you.”

Crowley’s incipient indignation deflated. “Anything you like, priest,” he said. Between the two of them they got him right way round on the bed, and Crowley toed off his shoes. Ezra circled the bed to get into it on the other side, and they lay there for a moment.

“Good night,” said Crowley at last.

“Rest well, my dear,” Ezra replied.


	15. Chapter 15

It was hard to wake up alone, even though he’d known to expect it. Crowley spent a few moments wondering at himself, at the way he’d let his careful defenses be blasted to bits. There was no harm in enjoying the presence of another person in his bed, but missing it when it was gone? He couldn’t afford that kind of vulnerability; it felt like having yet another scar, ever fresh, ever burning.

He sat up and scrubbed his hands back through his hair. A covered tray sat on the table, and Crowley had no memory of its arrival. He hoped that meant Ezra had brought it in, because if he was sleeping through people he didn’t know coming into the room he had more problems than just being in love.

If Ezra had brought it...normally being taken care of made his hackles go up like a cat being petted the wrong way. This didn’t.

He climbed carefully to his feet and shuffled out onto the landing. He only had to steady himself on the wall twice, but the fact that he had to do it at all was disheartening, even knowing he’d be fine in a day or two.

When he got back, he sat down at the table. It always surprised him, how much a person had to eat when they were just back from the dead. It wasn’t as if being dead were strenuous, in a physical sense. But being just revived was nearly the only time he had an appetite anymore.

The tray held a strangely-shaped piece of fruit that turned out to be one of Ezra’s pears when Crowley bit into it. He sat for a moment and studied it, recalling the look on Ezra’s face as he had searched for the word. He’d been delighted, to be sharing something he enjoyed; the pleasure had radiated from him in waves that were nearly visible. Ezra wasn’t meant for the battlefield, no matter how dangerous his shadows could be when he let them. He belonged with his books and his studies, letting people like Crowley handle the war.

Crowley ate, too sunk in thought to pay much attention to the food once the pear was dispensed with, and put the tray outside the door when he was finished. He sprawled onto the bed and let himself doze. He needed the rest, and he didn’t have any idea when the promised guild check-in would arrive. The sooner the better, all things considered.

Late in the morning someone scratched at the door. When he opened it Celebiriel gave him a blatant up-and-down scan. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you,” she said. She was trying to be light and mostly succeeding.

“Last time you saw me I was dying,” he said, matching the tone as best he could. He waved her in and went to sit back down.

She stopped near the foot of the bed and cocked her head. “You sure were. What _happened_? You’re better than that and it’s not like you didn’t know it was coming.”

Crowley shrugged. “That shadow priest distracted me,” he said with perfect truth. “Won’t happen again.”

“Well I damn well hope not.” She dropped onto the bed. “Right,” she said on a sigh, and pulled a packet out of her belt pouch. “I’ve put this off and put this off and...then you died.” She lobbed it into his lap; he was startled enough not to catch it. “It’s that tea you like.”

Crowley’d never claimed to be the most perceptive, when it came to interpersonal relations, but in context it wasn’t hard to figure out what Celebiriel meant. He picked the packet up and took a second to make sure his sudden tension wasn’t going to show in his voice. He couldn’t take the gift, and there wasn’t any explanation he could give that wouldn’t put Ezra at risk. “I can’t, Birti. It’s...I just can’t, but thank you.” He held it out. There was a long pause.

“Keep it anyway, you know I hate the stuff,” said Celebiriel. She stood up abruptly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Birti,” he said, as she pulled the door open.

“Tomorrow,” she repeated, and slipped out.

Crowley sighed and put the packet down on the table. “Well. That was a thing.”

* * *

Ezra’s door was cracked open when someone came out of Crowley’s room. He paused to give her a moment; she didn’t look to be in the best of moods. She wore her blond hair up, not quite concealing the short horns on her head, and like Crowley’s her eyes were covered by a blindfold. She stomped off down the stairs. She must have been from Crowley’s guild, come to check on him, but Ezra couldn’t imagine what had happened to make her leave in such a state.

It did, however, mean that Crowley was likely awake, so Ezra’s expedition down to the commons was a bit more urgent. He waited a little longer to make sure Crowley’s guildmate had had time to get clear before he went down the stairs himself.

It took a _suspiciously_ short time for the kitchen to make up a tray, even with Ezra asking them to be sure to include a few things he knew Crowley liked. He declined the offer of help to carry the tray back up, for no reason he could easily define.

He had to balance the tray against the wall to free one hand so he could knock. After a short wait he heard the bolt being drawn and Crowley opened the door. “Good morning, priest.” He smiled, looking as if he hadn’t expected to, and stood back to give Ezra room to enter.

“Good morning, invalid,” he replied, and smiled. A small package sat on the table and he balanced the tray again for a moment to get it out of the way uncrushed. In the light of day, the feelings they’d expressed the night before felt uncomfortable, too much. He shifted uneasily and felt Crowley’s regard settle on him.

“Are you alright? Come on, sit down and let’s eat something.”

Ezra wanted a lot of things, and for once a good meal wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. But he felt as if he should wait. They’d only just made up; surely Crowley would need a little time just as much as he did. He sat, and hardly noticed that his fingers had begun to worry at the hem of his tunic. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “It just, it feels strange, you know. As if everything has changed, but stayed the same, all at once. But it’s nothing to worry about. It’s a good strange.”

Crowley seemed satisfied with the answer, or at least he didn’t feel like prying into it further; he started checking the contents of plates. Ezra’s eyes kept drifting to the package, wrapped in cloth instead of paper and tied with fine cord rather than twine, as if it had come from a more expensive shop. He didn’t remember having seen it when he was leaving. Crowley’s guildmate must have brought it, something he’d forgotten to pack perhaps. Ezra concentrated on that, rather than the nagging desire to interrupt Crowley’s meal to wrap his arms around him. Crowley was recovering; he needed food more than he needed hugs.

“And how are you feeling this morning?” Ezra asked, in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice.

“Like I’m recovering from being discorporated,” Crowley replied, with a bit of a frown. “Better for having gotten some sleep, and hungry, which is a nice change.” Ezra frowned in turn. It was obvious just from his build that Crowley didn’t normally eat quite enough, but that sounded like something more fundamental than just forgetfulness. “Oh, these are good, _apsa_. Have you had them?”

The revealed dish was something fried; Ezra couldn’t tell at a glance what. “I don’t believe I have. I’ll try one if you don’t mind, but if you enjoy them you should have most of them.”

“Not going to argue.”

“I didn’t,” Ezra began, and then decided that _I didn’t want to leave this morning_ was a more serious topic than he wanted to introduce before they’d eaten. Instead, he said, “Did your guildmate bring you something you’d forgotten?”

Crowley paused with a serving spoon hovering awkwardly between two plates and sighed. “Yeah, that’s—well, it’s a present. A _gift_. I tried to give it back but she wouldn’t take it.” He made a rueful face. “She was in a bit of a flap when she left.”

Ezra bit his lip. He’d wandered into serious topics after all. “Oh,” he said, to give himself time to think. He hadn’t seen the woman’s face, but she was just as graceful as any other elf, so much more so than he’d ever be; she wouldn’t die of old age while Crowley was still strong and healthy; she could protect herself and Crowley too. “Well I’m sure she’s lovely. If you wanted to take it, I would...I would understand.”

Crowley put his serving spoon down and leant both elbows on the table. In a tone that suggested he was putting this into small words, he said, “You’re so clever. How can someone so clever be so daft? I’m always glad to have Celebiriel at my back and she’s never made a promise she hasn’t kept, but priest, I don’t _love her_.”

Ezra felt heat rising in his cheeks and downed the contents of the nearest cup. It turned out to be fruit juice. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, that you love me as I do you.”

* * *

A number of possible replies sprang to mind, but they all fell under _How can you love me, knowing what I am?_ and Crowley knew quite well that if he said any of them Ezra would be distressed, so he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Do you believe in fate?” He picked his fork back up and speared one of the shellfish on his plate. “Here, try this.”

Ezra looked at it, and replied, “I believe the Light guides us. If that’s fate, I suppose I believe in fate.” He sounded a bit puzzled, but he took the fork.

Crowley firmly ignored the little sound of pleasure Ezra made as he chewed and said, “I don’t.” He shrugged. “Or I didn’t. I might be changing my mind.”

Ezra used the fork to pick up another of the shellfish. “Oh yes? Finally accepting your destiny as a hero, then?”

Sometimes Crowley _really missed_ the ability to give people incredulous stares. “No. I met you. I _keep_ meeting you.”

Ezra reached for Crowley’s hand; Crowley crushed his reflex to move it away with sheer force of will. Ezra would think he was being rejected rather than shielded, and Crowley just couldn’t handle it. “You can’t keep complimenting me, my dear, I’ll be quite spoilt.”

“You could use a little spoiling,” Crowley told him. “I get the feeling you haven’t had nearly enough.”

“How strange, I had the same feeling about you.”

There was no possible answer to that, so Crowley took another bite from his plate. Chewing and swallowing gave him time to think. “I’m still not up to much today, but if you wouldn’t mind, erm, we never did finish that book.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Ezra, sounding completely sincere. “When we’re done eating I’ll fetch it from my room and you can lie down and rest while I read.”

“I’m not utterly useless,” Crowley grumbled. Lying down to rest was probably about what he could handle, but he didn’t have to admit it out loud.

“Of course you’re not, dear,” said Ezra indulgently.

They applied themselves to eating. When they were done Ezra loaded the empty dishes onto the tray, leaving their cups and a few untouched pieces of fruit, and took it out. While he was gone Crowley held a quick internal debate with himself before dragging one of the comfortable chairs close to the head of the bed. Doing it winded him and he resentfully arranged the pillows so he could lean on them. By the time Ezra returned he’d gotten himself settled.

“Here we are,” said Ezra, bustling into the room with a book clutched in one hand. “They’re going to move my things back up to the larger room, isn’t that lovely of them? Now where were we?” He sat and opened the book.

Crowley had a feeling that any arguments he could muster about why he at least should still sleep in _this_ room would be overridden, and anyway that was a problem for later. “I think she’d just gone to stay with her sick sister,” he said instead.

“Ah, yes, of course,” said Ezra, and turned a few pages.

* * *

Celebiriel made her way through the streets in the direction of the Legerdemain, trying not to let her foul mood show on her face. The residents of Dalaran were more sanguine about Illidari than most, but that didn’t mean they’d be happy to see one storming along like she was on her way to a murder.

She could hardly admit to Mirimë that she didn’t want to be going to check on Crowley this morning, not after more or less walking up to her and announcing she’d be the one who went, but it was going to be very awkward and she couldn’t say she was looking forward to it. To be fair she had sprung the gift on him, and he’d been about as kind about turning her down as it was possible to be under the circumstances, but still: awkward.

As she re-entered the inn, the barkeep was speaking to a human man. Celebiriel knew just enough Common to slowly render simple sentences in an atrocious accent, so all she picked out was something about upstairs and a meal, but the bartender called the man ‘Ezra’ and for some reason the name irritated her like a thistle-hair under her skin. She climbed the stairs worrying at the thought.

She scratched at Crowley’s door. From the sound he didn’t have to unbolt it and she huffed in exasperation; recovery was no excuse for carelessness. He opened the door and stood in it looking sleep-rumpled and far too appealing. To cover that she made her voice sharp. “Are you dying?”

“No,” Crowley replied, sounding a bit sheepish as well he should. “You can tell Mirimë I’ll be back tonight.” She gave him a sharp nod and turned. “Birti, look—”

“See you then,” she said over her shoulder. He sighed. Celebiriel didn’t stop. Dalaran had excellent merchants and she needed a few things.

* * *

Ezra looked up from his conversation with Sandra at the bar to find Crowley’s guildmate coming down the stairs. He hadn’t noticed her going up. Not something to mention to Crowley; the dear boy worried about Ezra’s powers of observation enough already.

He hadn’t gotten a great deal of sleep. He’d meant to, but his gaze had kept catching on Crowley and over the course of the night he’d dozed only an hour or so. Fortunately there had been time for a nap this morning after leaving Crowley’s room. He didn’t intend to try for another; he wanted to spend as much of Crowley’s limited time in Dalaran awake as possible. There would be time for sleeping tonight.

Per his instructions, the kitchen prepared another of their heaping trays and Ezra took custody of it. He knocked at Crowley’s door and Crowley joined him for the trip up to the balcony suite. He looked much better and wasn’t winded climbing the stairs. Ezra should be glad of that. _Was_ glad of it. But it meant Crowley would be leaving.

Their lunch passed pleasantly, with the pair of them trading savory bites as often as small stories of their guild escapades. All too suddenly, as they were piling crockery back on the tray, Crowley said, “I should pack up this evening. I told Celebiriel I’d be back, Mirimë’ll be expecting me.”

Ezra looked down at his hands. Why had he been hoping for more time when he knew better than to expect malingering from Crowley? “Well, I have a few more days’ leave,” he replied, trying to sound calm if not actually cheerful. “I think I’ll spend it here.”

Crowley sat down on the bed. “I wish I could come here more often,” he said. “Nothing wrong with the guild’s rooms in Dazar’alor but they’re nothing like this comfortable.”

Ezra wondered briefly if there were any way at all he could arrange to get Crowley a better mattress and tucked the idea away for further consideration. “I’m glad to see you recovering so well,” he said. It helped his delivery that this much was true.

Crowley made an airy gesture. “It’s been a while since the last time. Those last few months on Argus, I died so many times that on the last one it took me a week and a half to get back on my feet, but I’d managed to stay alive since.”

Ezra smothered the burst of guilt as best he could. This discorporation had been his fault, though he knew Crowley wouldn’t agree with him. “Well, may it be even longer till the next time,” he said.

“Don’t worry, priest, I can handle myself,” said Crowley, with a playful smirk. But then his face grew serious. “I need to ask you something, and—it’s not a good something.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing you could ask that would be _bad_ ,” said Ezra. He didn’t like Crowley’s tone of voice at all. To keep Crowley from talking he blathered, “I suppose you could ask for battle plans, but I know you wouldn’t do that and I’m in no position to know much about them in any case.”

“I would never ask.” Crowley spoke it like an oath. “No, it’s...look. Hastur and Ligur like to boast.” Ezra felt as if he’d had a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. “Not long before we met in Darkshore, I had to spend almost an hour with them while we waited on orders, and they _love_ telling their stories to people who don’t want to hear them. And you—” He paused and swallowed. “You said they’d killed you, and they kept gloating about a human priest they’d caught out from under the Archangels’ noses, and—they said they kept him alive for more than two days.”

Ezra’s hands were shaking; even as he laced his fingers together he knew Crowley had to have seen it. Sometimes he could discuss the matter quite calmly, as if it had happened to someone else. This, clearly, was not one of those times. Their mocking voices nearly drowned Crowley’s out, his face felt sticky with old tears. He was suddenly sure that if he spoke his voice would be hoarse from trying to scream.

“Tell me what you need me to do about them, Ezra. Anything you need.”

Ezra’s breath caught in his throat.

* * *

“No, I...I, no, you don’t need to,” Ezra stuttered. Crowley’s heart sank. “Don’t, there’s nothing, I need you to be _safe_.”

“Ezra,” said Crowley. He tried to make his voice gentle, but that had never been his strength, not even before Illidan. “I need you to be safe too. I need you to feel safe. And I know you don’t.”

Alarmingly, Ezra had begun to shake all over. “No one feels safe,” he said, and got to his feet. “There’s a war, how can anyone feel safe in the war?” He turned and crossed the room in hurried strides, turned back. His hands worried at each other, white-knuckled.

Right, so, bringing this up was perhaps not the cleverest idea Crowley’d ever had, brilliant job there. He stood up and took a cautious step in Ezra’s direction. “That sort of thing shouldn’t happen, not even in war,” he said. “It shouldn’t have happened, not to anyone and especially not to you.” Of all people, not Ezra; it was sacrilege of the worst sort to dim that light.

“You...that...no, I should have been more careful.” His eyes darted around the room. “Please don’t, please be safe, I should have been more _careful_ , I—” Ezra broke off and, well, there wasn’t a word for it other than _fled_ , out through the balcony doors. He leant on the rail, clinging to it, and Crowley could see his shoulders heaving.

Crowley had been sure he was right, hadn’t really needed to ask who Hastur and Ligur’s victim had been, but he’d held out some small hope that Ezra didn’t remember; often enough the minutes or even hours immediately before discorporation were lost to memory. But more than two days was well outside the range that Crowley’d ever heard of someone forgetting—and clearly however much he’d lost, it wasn’t nearly enough.

Crowley hesitated for only a moment before following Ezra out. He’d brought this up; he needed to fix it. He went to the rail and stood as close to Ezra as he dared. It was all but instinct at this point to avoid touching people, so he didn’t give in to the itch to pull Ezra into his arms. “What do you need right now?” he asked instead.

“Please don’t,” said Ezra again, all but choking on the words. His shadows were beginning to show, even in the midday light. “Please don’t _leave_ me.” He turned and all but flung himself at Crowley. “I know you can’t stay but _please_.”

Crowley stood frozen for a moment in startlement before he wrapped his arms around Ezra. “All right, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You’ll be all right now, priest, I’m so sorry.” Ezra buried his face in Crowley’s chest and hung on as if Crowley were the railing keeping him from plummeting off the balcony. Blast his fool tongue. Blast this awful sack of competing obligations that made him feel so rushed. And blast Hastur and Ligur to Argus and back for making Ezra think all that was because he _wasn’t careful enough_.

The storm of weeping was fierce but short. Crowley tucked Ezra’s head under his chin and murmured soothing nonsense. Neither of them paid any attention to the rest of the world; neither of them saw Celebiriel down in the street coming out of an enchanter’s shop, glancing idly up, and stopping in her tracks. Neither of them noticed how long she stood there.


	16. Chapter 16

Eventually the tears tapered off into sniffling. The shadows had thinned, which Crowley found to be a great relief. Finally Ezra took a fast, heavy breath and said, “Thank you.” He sounded relatively composed.

“Don’t thank me, I’m the one who brought it up,” said Crowley ruefully.

Ezra shook his head and pulled a little back; Crowley reluctantly let him go. “We should go inside, it’s too much of a risk out here. Light bless me, I don’t know what I was thinking. There was no need to panic.”

They went back in. “D’you think I never wake up sweating in the middle of the night?” Crowley asked as he closed the doors. “Dreams are the worst part.”

Ezra made an affirmative hum. They sat on the sofa by unspoken agreement and Ezra leant his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to know,” he said steadily.

“I don’t need to know,” said Crowley. “In fact it’s probably better if I don’t.” He had a far better picture than he really wanted already and wouldn’t have laid much money on his ability to avoid doing something extremely stupid if he got any more details.

“Promise me you’re not going to go after them. They’re dangerous.”

Crowley bit his tongue on the first response that came to mind: _I’m dangerous too_. “I wish you could talk to my command,” he said instead. “Someone who’s seen it first-hand, it might finally be enough to do something about those two. There’s never proof of anything beyond being a little too eager to fail to take prisoners, their guildmaster makes sure of it.” Baelsebë was a much colder kind of evil than most of their underlings, but evil nonetheless.

Ezra sat up straight and said severely, “Crowley.”

“Yes, all right, I promise,” said Crowley. He might have known he wasn’t going to get out of that.

* * *

Ezra nodded. “That’s settled then. Let’s talk about something more pleasant, shall we? Do you have any idea when you might be able to take more time?”

“Not with the way things are heating up,” said Crowley. “Mirimë needs all the people she can get—I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t needed to recover.” He sounded so glum that on impulse Ezra took his hand.

“I have two more days and I’m going to spend them here.”

“I’ll be here when I can, but I can’t be more specific than that. If you’ll check as well?” It was rather more obvious than Ezra thought he’d prefer that Crowley expected the answer to be _no_. Or perhaps he didn’t expect it precisely, but was afraid to assume a _yes_.

“Of course I will,” he replied, and pretended not to hear the tiny sigh of relief; he wasn’t sure Crowley even knew he’d done it. “How much time do you have now?”

“Two hours or so,” said Crowley.

“Of course. The hero of Azeroth, champion of the Horde, back into battle as soon as he’s able,” said Ezra. He had to put on a teasing tone but it wasn’t as difficult as he might have expected. “Your honour demands it.”

“Well,” Crowley drawled, “that and they’ll start docking my pay.”

Ezra laughed and repeated, “Of course.” He forgot sometimes that most people had to work for pay. For a moment they sat in silence. “I will miss you, my dear. I already do.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand and let it go.

“I’ll miss you too,” said Crowley. His expression turned thoughtful. “This, this isn’t anything I expected. I thought I’d die once too often fighting the Legion and that’d be the end of it. And then they were gone and I...wasn’t.”

“And thank the Light for that,” said Ezra, with considerable feeling. Crowley made the face that Ezra was coming to recognise as doubting his own worthiness, and that just wouldn’t do. “Oh, Crowley, I know you don’t want me to say it, but I do love you.”

Crowley shook his head. “I do want you to say it, and that’s a problem. I want you to say it and I want you to _mean_ it, and I shouldn’t. Even if we weren’t on opposite sides.”

Ah, yes, there it was, right on schedule. Ezra turned to face Crowley more squarely. “I don’t care about your past,” he said firmly. “I know your present. I do not care what you think you’ve done. I don’t care what people think of Illidari. My guildmaster is Illidari, remember.” Crowley tried to look away; Ezra let out a sigh that was really more of a huff of exasperation and turned him back physically with a gentle hand. “And even if he weren’t there is more to you than what you did when you thought you had no choice. You are kind, and brave, and whatever you might think you’re a good person, and I love you. I wish you could believe me.”

“I do believe you. Doesn’t mean I understand it.” Ezra took a breath and Crowley held up a hand to stop him. “Listening to you extolling my virtues would be entertaining, but it’s not going to explain anything.” For all that, though, he smiled, and Ezra beamed. Those smiles were much too rare for his tastes.

“Well, since I’ve had a bit of time in the mornings, I’ve done some shopping,” he said briskly, and stood up.

“Books to take back to Boralus? Local delicacies?”

“Aside from that,” said Ezra primly. He retrieved the package from where it had been sitting on the nightstand and handed it over. As soon as it was out of his hands he began to have second thoughts. What if it were too much, or too personal? If nothing else he’d paid rather a lot of money for an overnight job. But Crowley was already pulling the package apart.

* * *

What fell into his hand was a strip of cloth, very smooth on one side. Crowley wound it between his fingers for the simple pleasure of feeling it slide over his skin. “What is this?”

Ezra had gone nervous again, though he was attempting to hide it. “It’s, well—it’s a new blindfold. The one you’re wearing has some thin patches, and I didn’t know how many you have, and, oh, if it’s too personal you don’t have to feel obliged, here, I’ll just—” He reached for it. Crowley twitched it away.

“Too late,” he said. He hadn’t a hope of sounding casual, so he aimed for comical exaggeration instead. “No taking it back, it’s mine now.” He was at least a bit successful, because Ezra lost some of his tension and laughed. _Giggled_ , in fact, which was dangerously endearing. “All right, then,” said Ezra. “But if you’ll let me have it for just a moment, I didn't get a chance to put a finishing touch on it before it was wrapped.”

Crowley offered it, then drew it back when Ezra went to take it. “If you try to keep it I’ll do something drastic.”

“I would never,” said Ezra, and just as well because Crowley had no idea how he could begin to follow up on such a threat.

Ezra took the blindfold to the writing desk and rummaged for a brush, and a bottle of ink that exuded a faint halo of power. Crowley got to his feet for a better vantage as Ezra bent over the strip of cloth. He held it flat with one spread hand while he wrote, quick precise strokes around the border, the same symbol repeated again and again. The ink flared as it was applied, brightly enough that a normal person might have been able to see it, and then sank into the fabric and faded as the pen moved on. When he was finished Ezra picked it up. “Give it a moment to dry,” he said, and offered it.

Crowley took the cloth and frowned in concentration. His fingers tingled with new magic. His sense of magic was only what all sin’dorei had, nothing like as refined as what he’d have developed if he’d been able to continue studying, but he could get a sense of its intent. “Did you just put a ward on this?”

Ezra nodded and said, “It should settle a bit once it’s fully dry. It’s a slight modification of a protective glyph that’s used on helms—did you know, there aren’t any enchantments of that sort meant for blindfolds? I had to make some guesses, and it seems to have worked.” He shrugged. “It’s little enough, but if we have to be apart I feel the need to give you all the protection I can.”

Crowley did not let his fingers clench on the fabric. “Need all the help I can get, I’m sure,” he said. “Just a tick.” The washbasin in the corner had a mirror but he arranged himself so his head would block Ezra’s view of the reflection of his face while he untied his old blindfold. He hadn’t really paid much attention, but Ezra was right; it had developed more than a few fragile spots. While he waited for the ink to dry fully he washed his face, the cool water soothing on the gnarled scars radiating from his eyes.

When he picked up the new blindfold again it felt much less excited, as promised. Crowley wrapped it around his head and held the tails pinched between his fingers. “Here, priest, tie this for me.” Not even his altered vision let him see the back of his own head; Ezra would do a neater job.

Ezra’s steps seemed a bit hesitant as he approached, but Crowley only half-noticed, luxuriating in the feel of the smooth fabric against his skin. He intended to enjoy it as much as he could while it was still new.

He didn’t realize what he’d set himself up for until Ezra took the tails of the blindfold and began to tie it. Crowley had to forcefully suppress a full-body shiver at the feeling of fingers in his hair; the last time Ezra had touched his head, he’d been in no fit condition to appreciate it. He swallowed hard.

“Will that do?” Ezra asked. As his hands pulled away Crowley felt a tug, as if a lock of hair had slipped through his fingers. “It’s not too tight, I hope.”

“Nnh,” said Crowley articulately before he could get a grip on himself. “Ah, yeah, it’s great. Thanks.” He turned. “How does it look?”

There was an odd little pause before Ezra replied, “Very dashing. Before you know it the Illidari will have started a fashion trend.”

“Well, they’re terribly comfortable. I expect everyone will be wearing them in the future.” said Crowley. “What color is it?”

“Black. I suppose you’ll need to pack.” Ezra’s hands were clasped, tightening and releasing in the way Crowely had become familiar with.

“None of that, now,” said Crowley, and took an impulsive step. Ezra didn’t flinch, not even when Crowley took his fidgeting hands in his own. “I’ll pack, and then I suppose I might as well go. Probably should, at that, if I stay for dinner I’m too likely to run late. But I will be fine, priest, I promise. I’ll check back when I can, and you’ll do the same, and someday this war will be over.”

“Someday. Yes, _someday_ is enough to be getting on with,” said Ezra. His dubious tone said that he doubted it mattered whether there was a formal war on or not.

Crowley elected to ignore what wasn’t said. “Good. But today—I don’t want to leave.”

“I know, but today we both have obligations.” Ezra’s grip tightened on Crowley’s hands and he went on, “I suppose we’re not likely to meet in battle again, now that I’m not healing for the Archangels, and that’s for the best. We’re neither of us going to be able to fight as we should against each other.”

“All right, then,” said Crowley. “Come down and keep me company while I pack.”

* * *

Ezra found it very difficult to make pleasant small talk while Crowley packed. Everything he wanted to say seemed too large a topic to begin, and everything that wasn’t likely to lead to an hours-long conversational thread seemed trivial at best. Nor did he enjoy watching Crowley prepare to leave, not knowing when they would see one another again. Even in the privacy of his own mind it felt terribly overwrought to think of it as heartbreaking, but that was the word that kept presenting itself nevertheless. _Heart-wringing? Heart-bruising?_

The packing went too quickly; Crowley just didn’t appear to own much to begin with, whether from inclination or necessity, and had as usual not removed many things from his bag. It was the same bag Ezra’d recovered for him in Arathi, one strap neatly mended, and Ezra concentrated on wondering why he hadn’t just replaced it rather than think about their imminent parting.

All too soon, Crowley buckled the bag closed. Without lifting his gaze from his own hands, he said, “I’ll check when I can.”

Ezra rose from the chair he’d been sitting in to be out of the way. Crowley turned to face him, an unhappy twist in his lips. “Be safe,” said Ezra softly. His hands wanted to fidget; to stop them he raised one and before he knew what he intended to do he had laid it gently on Crowley’s cheek. His breath hitched. It was too intimate, too much; surely it was too much. But Crowley turned his face into the touch, and for a moment they were both still.

Then Crowley bent a little, and Ezra went up on his toes to cross the tiny remaining distance, and when their lips met Ezra’s eyes fluttered closed. He had kissed people before, even people that he loved, but it had never felt _perfect_. He relaxed into the kiss, trusting Crowley not to let him fall, revelling in the feeling of being where he should be. He heard himself make a small, contented noise—and Crowley went taut as a bowstring, straightened abruptly, and took half a step back. Ezra had to catch himself on the table and blinked his eyes open again.

“I’m so sorry,” Crowley blurted, and a half-formed shock of anger died before Ezra could properly feel it. He might have expected this. Someone, or many someones, had carefully taught Crowley to expect disdain, rejection, even fury, if he dared to cross the boundaries of what they considered acceptable—Ezra scheduled his anger at _that_ for sometime later. For now he had higher priorities.

“Sorry for what?” he asked. “Unless you’re planning to accept your guildmate’s gift, I see nothing you need to apologise for.” He tilted his head inquisitively, and put his hands behind his back to hide the sudden return of their nervous worrying. He could feel the shadows beginning to twine around his fingers.

“You _know_ what,” said Crowley. He sounded miserable, and like he didn’t want Ezra to know that, and by now Ezra could tell when Crowley was avoiding his eyes. It just wouldn’t do.

“My dear, please, look at me.” Crowley did. Ezra itched to reach out but he was quite sure that if he did Crowley would simply bolt. “I won’t have us parting on bad terms again.” He took a deep breath, feeling the blood rising in his cheeks. “This has been...lovely. And I—I was under the impression that we were courting. It seems to me this was bound to happen.” He shifted his weight. All but under his breath, he finished, “And _I_ was rather looking forward to it.”

“I will never understand you, I’m not—” Crowley broke off. Ezra didn’t interrupt. “No. You’re right, this isn’t the time. I’m glad it was lovely.”

He looked...well, one couldn’t have said _calm_ , but less like he would retreat in disorder the moment Ezra made a move in his direction, and Ezra tried to stifle a sigh of relief. It seemed worth the risk to bring his hands out from behind his back; Crowley stood firm, if a bit wary, even when Ezra couldn’t stop himself beginning to fuss with the front of his shirt. He wondered if Crowley knew the shirt was red. Ezra essayed a smile and said, “Mind how you go, my dear, and please. Please believe that I love you.”

“As you wish,” said Crowley. He took Ezra’s hands and his touch soothed their restlessness. “You too, priest. Look behind you once in a while, yeah?”

“As you wish.” Crowley’s fingers twitched. “I’ll even bolt my door. But now you should go, or I’m not going to let you.”

“Yeah. Right. Yes, going,” said Crowley. Ezra braced himself for the loss of contact, and nearly lost his breath again when Crowley raised their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to Ezra’s knuckles. “I’ll see you, priest,” he said, and then he was gone.

Ezra climbed the stairs back to his room half in a daze, unable to stop smiling. He could still feel the pressure of Crowley’s lips, on his own and on his fingers, and he traced the feeling dreamily. He only barely remembered to bolt the door before lying down on the bed. After a moment he rolled onto his side to drag the pillow Crowley had been using into his arms. It did not smell much like Crowley at all, but Ezra was prepared to make do.

* * *

Crowley wondered if it was obvious to Ezra that he was frankly fleeing; he hoped not but his record on guessing what Ezra was thinking had proven dubious at best. He had to pause for a moment halfway down the stairs to get better control of his breathing; it wouldn’t do to wander through the streets panting like he’d been in a fight.

He stopped in the common room to tell the bartender he wouldn’t be needing the room any longer; oddly, she sounded disappointed at the news. Then again perhaps it wasn’t odd, given the relative dearth of custom since the end of the Legion campaign. As he walked away he heard her dropping coins into a nearly-full jar, a new addition. He hadn’t got round to asking what it was in aid of.

Crowley could have taken his hearthstone straight back to Dazar’alor, but he felt an urgent need for a bit more time to think. He needed to become slightly more sane before he could be useful to his team, so he set out for the Orgrimmar portal instead. He could still feel the ghost of Ezra’s kiss, how it had felt utterly inevitable even as he’d waited to be struck down for having dared to take it. He’d wanted to drown in Ezra’s Light, and surely that couldn’t be permitted.

It had been a long time since Crowley had kissed anyone, but he didn’t think that was the reason it had made him feel like he was falling.

He would have thoughtlessly passed by the jeweler’s shop a few blocks from the Legerdemain, if it had not been for the pair of quel’dorei walking hand-in-hand in the other direction. Neither man spared a glance for Crowley, too involved in each other to pay him any mind, and it was all he could do to not stop and stare after them. Even when the war was over, the odds that he and Ezra would be able to spend time together so openly were small, not to say minuscule; open hostilities might end but the Alliance and the Horde had been fighting for more than a human generation at this point, and that sort of antagonism didn’t vanish overnight.

He rubbed his coin between his fingers, a motion that had become habitual within days. Books, no matter how much Ezra loved them, were not easily portable tokens. Jewelry, on the other hand…

Crowley turned into the shop. The war could wait another quarter hour.


	17. Chapter 17

The guild’s cluster of rooms in Dazar’alor was sparsely populated when Crowley returned to it. Mirimë welcomed him back, and sounded mildly surprised that he didn’t ask for an assignment right away, which he supposed was fair enough.

The room Crowley had been assigned was tiny, barely large enough for a bed that let him lie full-length, but he didn’t have to share it with anyone. He spent a few minutes unpacking and repacking his bag; he hadn’t taken anything to Dalaran with him that he’d need in the field.

When all of his things had gone back to their proper places, Crowley lay down on the bed. The mattress wasn’t wonderful, but he’d made up for that with excellent bedding, an extravagance he hadn’t been able to resist. It was only sensible to want to get good sleep, after all. Perhaps that was why Ezra didn’t sleep well: he’d never had really good sheets.

Ezra. What in the world was he supposed to do about Ezra?

As much as he hoped, as much as he wanted, it wasn’t—it wasn’t _possible_ , not for him; surely embracing the demons’ power would have burnt the capacity out of him. No matter how much he wanted it to be true, it had to be his imagination, a way to chase something he wasn’t entitled to anymore. He should let it go, that was all. Send a message through Mhorduna, maybe, so that Ezra wouldn’t worry, but he’d get over it. Humans could, from what Crowley understood. So Ezra would be fine, and if Crowley wouldn’t, that didn’t matter.

He pondered the problem, one arm over his eyes and the other hand wrapped around his coin. It did nothing to soothe the dull ache in his chest, but he couldn’t think of anything that would. A nap, maybe, just a century or so. In the wake of discorporation, recovered from or not, more rest could only be good. He was trying to work up the enthusiasm to take his boots off when someone scratched at the door.

He checked, exhaled, and got up to unbolt the door and let Celebiriel in.

Crowley backed off to conversational distance as she entered, closing the door carefully behind her without a word. She stood regarding him, arms folded. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, and Crowley was opening his mouth to ask what she needed when Celebiriel said bluntly, “Who’s the human?”

Crowley tensed. He managed to sound convincingly puzzled when he asked, “What are you talking about?” but he’d taken too long to respond. Celebiriel wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t fooled.

“I saw you, on the balcony,” she said. Crowley forced himself to not flinch. “Who is he?”

“A spy,” he tried. “I’ve been getting information from him to pass on to Command.” Skeptical silence filled the room. “He helped me out of Arathi that time I got separated from the rest of you.”

“And, what, you threw yourself into his arms out of gratitude, and that convinced him to betray his whole faction? No one’s technique is _that_ good.” Crowley almost laughed from sheer surprise. “I don’t think you’re selling secrets either, but something’s going on.”

“I promise you he’s not a problem for the Horde,” said Crowley. He discovered his hand had gone to the coin again, and forced himself to let go. He’d never managed to part with it, not even when he knew he was going into a fight and it could be lost, not even when he thought he’d cocked everything up.

“The Horde can get _bent_ right now!” Celebiriel snapped. “If I thought you were the kind to break your oaths I wouldn’t have tried to give you a gift, but Crowley, I can’t _cover_ for you if I don’t know what’s going on!”

Crowley gritted his teeth. It was a hell of a risk but he didn’t see any other alternative. “He’s why I couldn’t take it.”

The statement lay between them for a shocked moment. “You’re joking,” said Celebiriel at last. “You’re actually fucking a _human_?”

“We’re not fucking,” Crowley protested. He refused to consider the possibility. Ezra had said he’d liked the kiss; that didn’t mean he wanted anything else. “It’s not about that.”

“So, what, you’re just...holding hands?”

Ezra’s hands were soft. He had a writer’s callus, not a swordsman’s. “I’ll hold his hand forever if he lets me,” said Crowley, surprising himself with the conviction in his own voice.

“You’re talking like you’ve promised to do as he wishes,” said Celebiriel, sounding baffled.

Crowley sucked air through his teeth. He didn’t want to think about that either. It wasn’t for him. “I know how I’m talking.”

Celebiriel’s arms fell to her sides. “I didn’t even know you liked men too.”

Crowley shrugged. “I haven’t exactly been out looking for people to pull, Birti.”

She sighed. “He’s a human. He’ll die on you eventually, if nothing else. Can he even come back at all?”

“He can,” said Crowley. “I don’t care that he’s a human, and I don’t care that he’s a man. He could be an aardvark.”

Suddenly Celebiriel made a sound of revelation. “ _Ezra_ ,” she said. Crowley grimaced. “The bartender said Ezra, and that was who the note was for, _that’s_ why—how long has this been going on?”

Crowley sighed in turn and sat back down on the bed. “I told you, he helped me get out of Arathi.” _And he gave me a gift. For no other reason than kindness, because everyone should have something to hold dear._

“He’s a priest, up on the balcony he had shadows crawling all...oh, Crowley.” She dropped heavily next to him. “He was in the fight. He was the shadow-priest. Wasn’t he.” It was in no way actually a question.

Crowley answered it anyway. “Usually he doesn’t use the shadows.”

“He was using them pretty damned well when you stepped in front of my glaive.”

“I’m sorry,” said Crowley, because he was and he hadn’t told her so before. “There wasn’t time to explain and I couldn’t—I couldn’t.” His mind shied from picturing what would have happened if the glaive had hit Ezra instead.

Celebiriel took two slow breaths. “Crowley. This is a hell of a risk, and you’re not being careful enough.”

“I know,” he said.

“You were out on the balcony with _nothing_ between you and the sun.”

“I _know_. It was my fault, I—he had a run-in with Hastur and Ligur.” Celebiriel winced. “Yeah, from what I can tell it was even worse than you’re thinking. I brought it up and he—”

“He panicked,” she said. She was familiar with that sort of reaction; they all were. “But if you get caught.”

“Then I’ll have to kill myself before they can get to me, and if I don’t manage it, eventually I’ll die anyway.” It would probably take longer than two days.

“Is it worth that?”

“I can’t breathe without him,” he said simply.

Silence fell. After a long moment Celebiriel broke it. “Who knows about this? The kaldora?” Crowley nodded. “Anyone on our side?”

“Droxi. And she’s not happy.”

“That’s because Droxi’s a lot smarter than you,” said Celebiriel grimly. “All right. You're having an affair with a bluecoat, you're not giving each other intel, Droxi knows. Does that about sum it up?”

Crowley felt himself bristle at _affair_. This wasn’t an affair; this was the real thing. But he forced his voice to stay calm. “That sums it up. But Birti, if I do get caught, neither of you knew anything, yeah?” It was one thing to risk himself, quite another to risk his friends; the image of Droxi being ghoul food turned his stomach. Celebiriel hesitated only a moment before nodding. He opened his belt pouch, pulled out the package she’d given him, and offered it. “I really can’t keep this.”

“I really don’t like it, you know I don’t. Keep it. I won’t think it means anything,” said Celebiriel, and sighed again. “I wasn’t, well...you aren’t mine. Or at least if you are it’s not like anybody says.”

Sitting near her ought to have been comforting; Crowley got to be near other people so rarely these days. Even his fellow Illidari tended to keep to themselves, except for courting couples. But her proximity just reminded him that Ezra wasn’t there, wouldn’t be there for who knew how long, and the lack of him made Crowley itch. “I’ll enjoy the tea, then,” he said. “I’m sorry, I really am. If it had been before...”

“I never claimed to have good timing,” she said, wry and resigned. She got to her feet. “I’ve got to go check whether Mirimë wants me on patrol tonight.” It was almost certainly a lie; Mirimë didn’t leave routine assignments till the last moment. But he wasn’t going to call her on it. “I’m glad you’re back, though.”

“I’m glad to be back. Thank you.” For any number of things, foremost being not grassing him up as a spy as soon as she saw him and Ezra together.

“Welcome,” she said, and left. Crowley bolted the door behind her and went to sprawl on the bed, insofar as it was big enough for a sprawl. He stared at the support beams of the ceiling above him and said quietly, “Oh, priest. I miss you already.”

* * *

It was morning only in the sense of being after midnight when Ezra woke. He lay in the dark for a few minutes, trying to believe he was still enjoying himself, and then gave it up as a lost cause. No bed was comfortable enough to be adequate to the purpose, not when he was in it alone. He sat up and rubbed his face for a moment before waving at the lamp.

Ezra had thought to take some time to himself, to rest from the last few months, but Crowley’s absence grew the room five times over. It felt like a cavern, not a well-appointed suite. He’d get no rest here without Crowley, and given that he might as well go back to Boralus. Maybe doing some good for his team would help him settle.

He got up and dressed and spent some time arranging the room to his liking, though he couldn’t leave anything particularly sensitive; the Legerdemain’s staff would be happy to keep an eye on his things for as long as he let the room, but better safe than sorry. Packing took longer when he did it properly, rather than haphazardly throwing whatever came to hand into his bag, and he dawdled over the task. It wasn’t sensible to be reluctant to leave; Crowley wasn’t here and Ezra couldn’t get good rest, and the inn itself held no special magic. Still, it felt as if leaving would take him even farther from … why did this feel like home?

As he worked he ate the last few pieces of fruit that had survived their meals, and made a mental note to get a proper breakfast once he was back in Boralus. By the time he was finished, it was approaching a civilised hour. Ezra sighed, picked up his bags, and went out.

In the common room he was pleased to discover Amisi already awake. A brief negotiation secured the room at a slightly reduced rate for as long as he liked; she promised that Crowley would be shown to it if he arrived alone—and given a different room if there were someone with him. They had not in any way been subtle, and Ezra was quite certain the entirety of the crafter’s district, if not the whole of Dalaran, knew about their relationship, but better to get a start on being more careful.

Back in Boralus he went to his rooms—his own rooms, in his own house, which he hadn’t really visited in three months—to get some clean clothes and repack his bags again. He stayed long enough to eat breakfast, and then he was off to the Them’s headquarters.

* * *

Mhorduna looked up from inspecting his left greave at the sound of a familiar voice.

“I’m back,” said Ezra. “I hope you’ve got something for me to do.”

Mhorduna studied him. He’d lost the desperate look he’d carried when they spoke outside the barracks, and there was no sign of the shadows in the air around him. “You heard from him,” he said, and tried to keep relief out of his own voice. He hadn’t relished the thought of trying to talk Ezra down if Crowley hadn’t returned.

“He was there, but he’s recovered already and couldn’t stay. I didn’t want to be there alone.”

“And whatever it was, it’s alright now?” As far as Mhorduna knew, no one had managed to worm out of Ezra what had happened—not that the Archangels would have bothered to try, and most of his friends were in their guild so he hadn’t been speaking to them. Even Makavi hadn’t been able to make a dent in his stony silence and had given up trying the third time he’d walked away from her in the street while she was mid-sentence.

Ezra nodded. “It’s, oh, it was the most dreadful misunderstanding. I told him what you said about the gifts, you see, and I think I startled him, and then I was so wrong about what he said—” He got higher-pitched and faster as he went on and Mhorduna, who had been dealing with Ezra’s anxiety for most of a year, held up one hand.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Ezra fluttered to a stop. “You know what went wrong, so you can avoid that kind of misunderstanding in the future, yes?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Ezra fervently.

“That’s all I need.” There was no point in rehashing old mistakes, except insofar as one could learn from them. “As it happens, the guild has orders from Command. It’ll be a week, maybe two. If you really don’t want to take the rest of your leave, I’m sure everyone will be delighted to have you along.”

“I need something to occupy myself,” said Ezra. “I can’t just sit and read _all_ the time.”

“No,” said Mhorduna, with as straight a face as he could manage. “Sometimes you need to eat.”

Ezra gave a huff of indignant laughter but did not otherwise take the bait. “So, boss. Where are we going?”

Mhorduna sobered. “Darkshore,” he said. “We’re taking it back.”

* * *

Ezra had heard that some parts of Teldrassil were _still_ on fire, and improbable as it seemed he could believe it. The air in Darkshore held a perpetual tang of ash—though some of that was no doubt due to two small armies’ worth of campfires—and certainly the Tree was enough wood to feed every hearth, cookstove, furnace and forge in the world for centuries.

The fighting remained brutal, and constant. There were so many fighters that some weren’t even immortal souls; those tended to be night elves, furious enough at the destruction of their home to risk their own lives to avenge it. Ezra stayed well behind the front lines as much as possible, healing those who were brought to him, but the currents of small-unit combat sometimes swept him closer to the Horde vanguard than was comfortable. Once he caught a glimpse of Hastur and Ligur that way, retreating in the face of a concerted assault from Michael and a few of her underlings, and took himself away as fast as possible.

He and the other healers forced themselves to rest when they could. The lure of _Just one more, I can still help just one more_ was strong, but everybody knew that one couldn’t pour out power indefinitely and potions only helped for so long. During one of his rotations back to the relatively safe main camp, Ezra stood outside the Them’s common tent and watched a unit of kaldorei archers hurry past. Elves never looked _old_ , but these had an air of being young, actually young, and he wondered how many of them would die—and how many would discover that the one death was all they’d be granted.

He didn’t hear Mhorduna approaching. “Copper for your thoughts, Ezra.”

Ezra shrugged and replied, “It’s a good thing I came,” he said. “So many young ones, and so many don’t have our _gift._ ” He supposed it was a gift, anyhow.

For a moment Mhorduna didn’t answer; when Ezra glanced at him, he was looking up at the evening sky. Then he shook his head. “We can’t have Teldrassil back, but we can drive the ones who killed it out of our lands,” he said. “Those who can’t return have just as much right to the fight as those who can, and it’s not our place to forbid them.”

“I know,” said Ezra softly. “I just wish I could help more.”

“And that’s why you’re a good healer, and a good friend. Elune watches over them.” Mhorduna turned and pushed the tent flap aside. “Last call, people,” he said. “Take a bite to eat, go to the latrines, and armour up. We’ve got half an hour.” A ragged chorus of acknowledgement drifted out of the tent.

* * *

By the eighth day they’d pushed the Horde out, at least officially, but patrols still came back wounded, cursed, poisoned, or not at all. The healers who’d been there longest were offered leave; Ezra didn’t take it. He couldn’t bear the thought that some poor soul would die for good because he hadn’t been there.

When he wasn’t needed, he sat in whatever out-of-the-way spot was nearest and thought about meeting Crowley here. Crowley had had _no reason_ not to take him prisoner or discorporate him and they’d never discussed why he hadn’t. Never mind what would happen if Crowley’s superiors caught wind of a friendship with a bluecoat; just letting Ezra leave could have drawn punishment. Ezra wasn’t naïve enough to believe every story he heard about how the Horde handled discipline under Sylvanas, but Crowley had made a few offhand remarks that supported some of the less-awful rumours—and those were quite bad enough. Flogging had made something of a comeback, it seemed, and Ezra thought it all too possible that the story claiming some people had been painfully discorporated was true. Being tortured to death, even temporary death, wasn’t a fate Ezra would wish on his worst enemy.

That thought trod close to dangerous ground, and he pushed it away whenever it came up. He could not do his job if he were huddled in a corner weeping.

Twelve days after arriving in Darkshore, Ezra knelt at an injured man’s bedside, thinking half about the best way to handle the ugly wound before him and half about sending for more restorative potions; he was hoarding his last one against a sudden influx of wounded. Powering one’s magic with potions wasn’t at all healthy in the long term but he had days yet before it became a serious problem.

He’d just decided on an approach and laid his hands on the soldier’s side for better control when someone took him by the shoulder. Startled, Ezra turned to find Sandalphon of the Archangels glowering at him.

“Leave him,” said the dwarf. “You’re coming patrolling with us.” Behind him stood Gabriel, with his helm under his arm and a sour look on his face, and Michael, for once in her upright wolf-like form instead of down on all fours as a cat. Ezra had never seen her purely human face, though he knew she had to have one; most Gilneans preferred it for day-to-day living.

“I most certainly am not,” he said. He didn’t sound as firm as he’d have liked. “I have patients here to tend to.”

Michael’s lip curled and her normally-rough voice bent into a snarl. “You leave us, and refuse us your skills? Where do your loyalties lie, Fallwater?” Behind her, Makavi pushed aside the tent flap and took in the scene.

Ezra felt his jaw clench and clasped his hands to stop them fidgeting. “My guildmaster, my Lord Admiral, the king, and the Light. You are none of those.”

Gabriel opened his mouth, no doubt to make claims about being a servant of the Light, but he didn’t quite make it before Makavi stepped between the Archangels and Ezra. “Is there a problem?”

“Your priest here is refusing to come out on patrol,” said Gabriel.

Makavi shrugged and replied, “Ezra’s doing important work here. Where it’s _safe_.” Sandalphon made a derisive noise; Gabriel and Michael looked offended. “He’s not yours to command and he’s got a new assignment, so I’m sorry but you’ll have to find someone else to not protect while they support you.” Ezra almost laughed at how profoundly not sorry she sounded. It was possible he’d let himself get even more tired than he’d thought.

For a moment the tableau held; then Ezra’s patient stirred and whimpered and his attention snapped back. “I have to attend to him,” he said absently. His hands steadied as he reached for his patient again.

Just from the sound of his voice Ezra could tell that Gabriel was shaking his head. “It’s not just the priest, his whole guild’s soft. Let’s go, we can handle stragglers without him.”

Ezra didn’t listen to them leaving, concentrating on the knitting flesh under his hands. Maces made such terrible wounds; it took finesse to sort out the confusion.

By the time he finished he was lightheaded. He stayed where he was as his patient settled into real sleep. Makavi waited patiently until he gathered his resources enough to heave to his feet. “You said you have an assignment for me?” Even to himself he sounded tired.

Makavi smiled. “Yeah. Your assignment is to take a few days off.”

“I can’t,” Ezra protested. “I have patients.” So few healers knew enough about the body to do things the careful efficient way, and those who only knew combat healing could burn themselves out in hours.

“And you’re not going to do them any good if you fall over from exhaustion,” said Makavi kindly. “I’m taking over. I may be a little slower but I haven’t been overspending my magic the way you have.”

“Maka,” he said. She raised her eyebrows at him, and Ezra felt his resolve crumble. If he had a few days off, he could go _home_. “Yes, all right. Does Mhorduna know?”

“Who do you think sent me? Now off you go, Ez, get some sleep, I’ll handle things here.” Outside the tent something snuffled and grumbled and Makavi huffed laughter. “After I take Barbara for his walk.”

Ezra shook his head. “ _Why_ did you name your gronnling Barbara?” As a druid Makavi didn’t really need a mount to begin with, and the massive beast wasn’t easy to house or feed, but she loved it and brought it on assignment whenever she could arrange to.

“It’s a human name,” she said, and grinned. “Exotic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Gronnling:** Large, apelike, one-eyed creature. A face only a druid could love.


	18. Chapter 18

Crowley managed a week and a half before he went to Dalaran.

Ezra wasn’t at the Legerdemain, and hadn’t left any message; nor had anyone there heard from him. Crowley took up residence in the balcony room and tried not to worry. He tried to tell himself it was silly; the priest was a grown man, he took care of himself for decades before he ever met Crowley—and for a human, decades is a long time.

It didn’t help.

It didn’t help for three days.

On the fourth night he awoke from shallow sleep to the sound of someone at the door, trying to open it. On the one hand, assassins would be quieter than that; on the other, it could be a distraction for someone to come in from the balcony. Crowley sat up as a soft thud shivered through the door.

The silhouette outside was Ezra, standing hunched oddly forward, and Crowley threw himself out of bed. He drew the bolt and opened the door, and Ezra stumbled over the threshold—he’d been leaning on the door, forehead first. “What—?” Crowley caught Ezra by the arm to steady him. “Priest, are you alright?”

“Oh my...Crowley!” said Ezra. He caught his balance and stood up straight. “It’s lovely to see you.”

“Yes, but are you alright?”

Ezra nodded, and kept nodding as if he’d forgotten how to stop. “I’m quite well, only a little tired.” He made for the bed, not very gracefully, and it occurred to Crowley a little late that Ezra probably couldn’t see much of anything. Because it was Dalaran you could light the lamps by snapping your fingers at them, so Crowley did that. “We’ve got Darkshore, though I’m sure you know that. There were so many who needed healing.”

Crowley was suddenly very glad that his guild had been elsewhere; he didn’t want to end up across a battlefield from Ezra ever again. “Take your boots off before you lie down,” he said. “You’ll be sorry in the morning if you don’t.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Ezra. He set course for the chest of drawers, having apparently put things into it. He fumbled his belt undone, and then paused. “Crowley, dear, could you please...I need to change my clothes.”

It took a beat for the meaning to register, but only a beat. “Sure.” Crowley couldn’t close his eyes, so he turned his back instead. A few minutes of rustling later, Ezra said, “All right, come back to bed, I’m sure I woke you.”

Crowley turned back to find Ezra wrestling with the bedclothes in an attempt to get under them. The blanket seemed to be winning but Ezra looked determined to make it two out of three. It really shouldn’t have been adorable, not to a person who sold his soul for revenge; he told himself sternly that ‘adorable’ shouldn’t be in his vocabulary. It didn’t change anything, and Crowley had to fight to keep his expression only a little besotted.

Crowley sat down and twitched the bedclothes out of Ezra’s hands to get them both properly covered.

“Thank you for being here,” Ezra murmured.

“Well, where else would I be?” Crowley asked, but that was a level of abstraction too far and Ezra’s brow furrowed. “You’re exhausted, go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Come here,” said Ezra, and Crowley went, and didn’t even hesitate over it. Ezra mumbled something that might have been _good night_ ; Crowley was certain he didn’t hear the reply.

It didn’t take him long to go back to sleep himself, and with Ezra close enough to touch, he could finally rest.

* * *

In the morning, Crowley woke first. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, given the shape Ezra had been in. Crowley grimaced. It was almost always healers who tried to live on potions, and if he were any judge Ezra’d been doing it for days. At least someone had gotten to him before he’d moved from fatigue and repetitive motions to actually damaging himself.

Crowley thought idly that it would probably be polite to go fetch firstmeal, but that would mean leaving the bed and the room and he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. If nothing else he didn’t want Ezra to wake up alone. Instead he lay drowsing, wandering in and out of sleep for an indeterminate time until Ezra stirred and said something indistinct that Crowley wouldn’t have understood even if it hadn’t been half-muffled by his own upper arm. “What’s that?” he asked. Ezra hadn’t woken up enough to remember that Crowley didn’t speak Common, obviously.

Well, he didn’t speak it beyond a few phrases like _drop your weapons_ and _hands where I can see them_ , learnt by rote.

Ezra rolled onto his back, yawned, and said, “I said I’m very comfortable, my dear.”

“I should hope so, with what this room must cost,” said Crowley. “D’you want food?”

“Eventually,” said Ezra. “I have two days’ leave, what about you?”

“I’ve been going back and forth,” Crowley admitted. He turned onto his side, the better to look at Ezra. “But there’s nothing on the docket for today, we’ve been on light duty. We were in the reserve for Darkshore but our three best healers got ambushed before we could be sent in.” And thank...something for that.

Ezra squirmed over to his side as well. In the tone Crowley had privately dubbed the Silly Me Voice, he said, “Can I ask you a favour?”

“Can always ask. I don’t guarantee I’ll do it,” Crowley lied blatantly.

Ezra seemed to be too busy biting his own lip to notice. “I’d just, erm. I’d like to have a tub brought up. It’s so hard to wash properly in camp, you know.”

Crowley waited a beat. No actual request for a favour appeared to be forthcoming. “I can ask when I go down to get firstmeal?” he said.

“That would be lovely but, also, if you could go out for a bit, that would be very thoughtful of you,” said Ezra. He sounded worried; Crowley couldn’t imagine about what.

“I can probably find something to do with myself,” he said, rather than pursue the question. “Whole city out there.” Including the jeweler’s shop, which he could now go to alone without having to think up an excuse.

It appeared he’d found the correct answer because some of the tension went out of Ezra’s shoulders. He curled forward until his forehead bumped Crowley’s shoulder. “I thought about you, even in the middle of battle,” he said. Clearly Ezra wasn’t quite over his dalliance with potions; if he were still unable to stick to a topic by evening, Crowley would have to start worrying. “We met there. I’d love to see it with you.”

“When the war is over,” said Crowley. “I’ve heard stories of what Tyrande’s been getting up to and I don’t want to meet that. Do you think your lot are going to stick this time? We’ve been handing Darkshore back and forth like a gift no one wants.”

“Oh, who knows? Darkshore and Arathi, they’re just excuses to fight,” said Ezra. He straightened out again, presumably so he could watch Crowley’s face, and when he went on the Silly Me Voice was back. “I have a question, and it might be a little awkward?” He set his hand on Crowley’s chest, the fingers slightly spread.

Crowley had not quite gotten over the urge to freeze whenever Ezra touched him voluntarily, but he at least had gotten to the point that he could reliably talk. “I did say you can always ask, didn’t I?”

“So you did. All right then. What are the odds, would you say, of Hastur and Ligur always being in the same fights as the Archangels?”

Another topic-skip and not what Crowley had been expecting, but it was a good question and he frowned in thought. “Their guild has a bit of a grudge, so Baelsebë might be angling to get assigned in places the Archangels are likely to be. But you’re right, now that I think about it. It’s more often than I’d expect even with that.”

Ezra hummed agreement and his thumb traced back and forth over Crowley’s breastbone. He resolutely did not get distracted. Ezra said thoughtfully, “I can’t remember seeing either of them, without the others. If Hastur and Ligur are there, so are the Archangels. And I healed for them so many times. It worries me.”

“It is a bit not good. I’ll have to do some asking around,” Crowley agreed. But for right now he needed to get the hell out of this bed before he either exploded or expired. “Give me a few minutes to get dressed and I’ll let you have your bath.”

“Thank you,” Ezra replied. He pushed himself up on his elbow and leant down to place a gentle kiss on Crowley’s cheek. He didn’t appear to realise what he’d done, and climbed out of bed, leaving Crowley tossed on the waves in his wake. “Don’t go poking around too much. It’s only curiosity.”

Crowley knew for a fact that he had the ability to form words, but it took him a moment to remember how that _worked_. “Ah. Yeah. No, no interest in getting those two on my back,” he said, and stood. At least his feet were still performing as expected. He stretched his arms up to the ceiling, working out the kinks of deep sleep. His day clothes lay where he’d left them, draped on a chair. “Avert your eyes, priest, I’m about to take my shirt off.” He aimed for a joking tone, wasn’t sure how close to the mark he hit.

* * *

Being directly addressed snapped Ezra out of the semi-trance of staring at the long line of Crowley’s body. “Oh! Yes, of course.” Rather than fight to keep his eyes closed, he turned his back. It was distressingly difficult to ignore the tiny sounds of cloth rustling. To give himself something else to think about, he said, “I’ve claimed the room for the foreseeable future. You should, that is, please feel free to leave things here.” He should not, he told himself sternly, all but _order_ Crowley to make himself at home here.

“Not much to leave,” said Crowley. “But remind me, what did you say your family does? Shipping?”

Ezra didn’t recall having mentioned it, and it flustered him a bit that Crowley remembered even that much. “Yes. They do, or they did. Shipping and trade, once. It’s only me now. I passed as much of the business as I could to the employees, though I’m required to hold a controlling share. The workers made it successful and they deserved to get the good of it.” He could still hear Crowley undressing, or was he dressing again by now? He felt aflame.

“And besides, you were too busy learning—how many languages is it, anyway? Common, Orcish, Thalassian and Darnassian, anything else?”

“I can hold a basic conversation with nearly anyone,” said Ezra. “I enjoy the elven languages, I’ve studied them most intensely, though there aren’t many sources for Shalassian, or for Nazja. And I’ve never managed to get the hang of Nerglish.”

“Nerglish?” Crowley repeated incredulously.

“Murlocs,” said Ezra. His mouth felt dry and he swallowed. “Thalassian and Darnassian aren’t so dissimilar, mostly you have to keep the suffixes straight.” Which Crowley knew, of course, being a native speaker of Thalassian, and Ezra felt sure he was making a fool of himself. “I started for my family’s business, and it turned out I had a bit of a knack for it.”

“I’d call it a bit more than a knack, if your biggest failing is not being able to talk like a murloc,” said Crowley. The sounds had stopped, but Ezra wasn’t sure if he were allowed to turn around yet. “I don’t think anyone but murlocs can talk like murlocs. All right, where are my boots?” Looking for boots probably meant he was dressed, didn’t it? “Ah, there they are. I just think it’s odd that murlocs talk to each other at all. Do they even have ears? I suppose they must do.”

Ezra giggled, and felt his cheeks flame with mortification. “Of course they must. It’s how they hear the other murlocs.”

“Exactly. Now how long did you want me to stay out?”

“Well, we can eat while the water’s heating, and then...I won’t take long. Half an hour, or a bit less, most likely. I’m so sorry to inconvenience you.”

“It’s not a problem, I’ll run an errand. I’ll order the tub while I’m down fetching firstmeal, then.”

Ezra shifted his weight. “You’re too kind.” _He put on his boots, surely I can turn around?_

“Don’t be daft.” There was a pause. “You know I’m dressed, yeah? You don’t have to keep staring at the wall.” Crowley sounded indulgent, or maybe amused.

Ezra managed a chuckle as he turned. “I, I just didn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing,” said Crowley. Ezra had a strong feeling that there was more to that sentence, but Crowley continued, “I’ll be right back. With food.”

Ezra smiled. As soon as Crowley was out the door, however, he collapsed on the bed. **You’re making a fool of yourself. That’s your specialty, isn’t it?** He could feel the shadows trying to creep out and his breath came short, and he had to cling to the memory of waking next to Crowley to calm down. He managed it not a moment too soon, just as Crowley returned with their food.

* * *

They were nearly through eating when the staff arrived with the tub. Crowley took his leave as they started to fill it.

His commission had been waiting at the jeweler’s, where he’d left it rather than risk losing track of it. The ring was a broad band of gold, with enough copper in the metal to give it a rosy tint, and engraved with a sunburst that Ezra could pass off as representing the Light. Crowley stood at the counter and turned it around in his fingers. The shop’s other customer, a human woman, glanced over his shoulder. His guard went up a bit, but she gave him a pro-forma smile and moved away again, so she’d simply been curious; fair enough.

He paid the jeweler, tucked the little velvet bag into his belt pouch, and walked back down past the Legerdemain to the conservatory to last out the rest of his half hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **What Tyrande's been up to:** Running around with her druid husband, wielding the power of the Moon Goddess, and generally kicking ass.
> 
>  **Murlocs:** Fish people. They have arms and legs and can survive out of water, but they're fish people. They apparently do talk to each other, but when written it's always represented as a random selection from M, R, G, L, and occasionally N. [This representative sample](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qMPpnCvCZvw) is the sound they make when they enter combat with a player.


	19. Chapter 19

Crowley crossed paths with the tub as he went up the stairs and it went down them. Those few moments of warning were not nearly enough to prepare him for Ezra, hair still damp and not quite dressed; Crowley was intellectually aware that one undone button, bare feet and sleeves rolled up two turns did not constitute debauchery but that awareness didn’t _help_. He was just lucky that Ezra didn’t notice him for long enough that he got a grip on himself.

Ezra had apparently been thinking hard about something, because when he realised Crowley was there he startled a little. “Feeling better?” Crowley asked. He forced himself not to stare at Ezra’s forearms.

“Oh, yes, terribly,” said Ezra, and sat on the sofa. “Quite aside from cleaning up, more than a week in the woods didn’t do my joints any good. Warm water helps.” He sounded hesitant.

Crowley nodded and collapsed onto the other end of the sofa, draping his arm along the back. “More than a week, I’m surprised you lasted till this morning without a bath. I’d have been going out of my skin.” The inability to get really clean had not been the worst thing about his trek across the Swamp of Sorrows with Zekhan, but it was surely high on the list.

“There’s only so much one can do with a stream,” said Ezra. “I couldn’t go far, or take too long at it, and besides the water was so dreadfully cold.” He shuddered theatrically, and then sighed. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Last night was the fourth night.” Crowley tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

Ezra turned his head as he replied, “I’m sorry. I had permission to leave three days ago but...I couldn’t. So many healers hate working in the hospital tents, they want to be out where the action is.” Crowley had rarely heard such disdain from him. “They don’t learn how to do things the efficient way. Makavi did, but she had her own assignment. I had to stay, as long as I could help. But oh, I’m so sorry for making you wait.” His hands had started fidgeting with each other.

“How long were you waiting while I chased Saurfang all over the Eastern Continent?” Crowley asked, hoping to head him off. “We both have obligations.”

Ezra nodded, and turned a little to lay one hand over Crowley’s. “We do, but...that was different. I _chose_ not to come. I should have at least sent a message. You did, and in rather more difficult circumstances. So I’m sorry.”

“Will it make you feel better if I say your apology is accepted?”

“Yes,” said Ezra.

“Then it’s accepted. Now let’s talk about something else.”

“Thank you,” said Ezra, and hitched himself a little closer to Crowley’s end of the sofa. “I should fetch some books from Boralus. There are a few things I’ve been meaning to re-read, and I do so enjoy reading aloud to you.”

“Well you shouldn’t have told me that, now you’re never going to get out of it,” said Crowley, gratified by Ezra’s tiny laugh. “Before that though, I have something for you. Picked it up while I was out.”

* * *

The small bag Crowley dropped into his outstretched hand was velvet, and Ezra suspected the general nature of its contents even before he had the strings untied. He upended it onto his palm, and what tumbled out was a ring.

A _ring_. And a costly one, from the look of it; Ezra could tell real gold when he saw it. Heavy, too. His cheeks flamed, surely more red than Crowley’s hair, as he studied it. It had a rosy tint and an engraved pattern of sunbursts—so clever, to choose a motif with a double meaning—and Crowley couldn’t know what such a gift might symbolise.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said. Without thinking much of it he moved a little closer. Whether by chance or contrivance the ring fit the third finger of his left hand perfectly, and Ezra suddenly remembered he needed to breathe, even as a smile broke over his face. “It’s lovely, but my dear, this is too much.”

“It’s not,” said Crowley. “It’s exactly enough. You can’t carry a book everywhere, but a ring you can.” Ezra’s gaze landed on the cord Crowley’s coin hung from. The reasoning was sound, but what decided him was Crowley’s voice, tinged again with uncertainty.

“You know quite well that I do carry a book everywhere, or nearly, though not any of yours, not anywhere they might be damaged.” Deliberately Ezra moved yet closer. Crowley sat (‘sat’) at a bit of an angle, so their knees bumped and their hips were nearly touching. “It’s wonderful, I love it, I don’t know how to tell you how much.”

“Well. Good,” said Crowley, and Ezra saw colour creeping into his cheeks as well.

“It’s almost as wonderful as you.” Ezra held his hand up so he could admire the ring, and leant his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

“You’re going to spoil me if you keep this up, priest,” said Crowley, sounding a bit out of breath.

Absorbed in his study of the way the engraving caught the light, Ezra said absently, “Spoil you?”

“You, erm, say things. Is my point.”

“Well, of course I say...things.” Ezra sat slightly straighter and turned his head as he spoke, and he hadn’t quite realised how close they were; any closer and he’d be sitting in Crowley’s lap, their noses mere inches apart. _I should back up a bit_ , he thought, and it seemed only logical to put one hand on Crowley’s chest to help with that, but his fingers traced the cord of the necklace instead, down to the coin, and he rubbed his thumb over its surface.

Crowley drew a breath that sounded uneven and his hand slipped from the sofa’s back to Ezra’s shoulder. “Come here,” he said, his voice suddenly gone rough. “Please.”

The words weren’t all the way out of his mouth before Ezra was leaning to kiss him. Truth be told, he’d never really wanted to back up anyway.

* * *

Crowley could refrain from kissing Ezra; he was far less capable of stopping Ezra from kissing him. The only thing that kept it from being perfect was his inability to close his eyes.

Looked at logically, the whole thing was utterly ridiculous. Crowley was not a youth with his first lover, he shouldn’t have been overwhelmed by a _kiss_. But Ezra made a delighted noise, a little hum of pleasure that usually went along with some especially tasty tidbit or excellent wine, and there was only so much flesh and bone could be expected to withstand.

It took some doing, since they were neither of them willing to stop kissing for more than an instant at a time, but Crowley was determined. He maneuvered them around until he was backed into the corner of the sofa, with Ezra more or less in his lap. “There, perfect,” he murmured. “We never have to move again.”

Ezra laughed softly and said, “As you wish.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, and then noticed that wasn’t a word. His arms tightened around Ezra’s waist and he let one hand drift up his spine to rest at the back of his neck, let his fingers pet through the curls there. Ezra’s right hand still curled around the coin; the left rested on the side of Crowley’s neck. He could feel the smooth band of the ring against his skin.

For several minutes Crowley lost himself in the feelings, Ezra’s solid weight holding him secure, and for several more he managed to ignore the creeping sense of wrongness, but finally the knowledge wouldn’t be pushed aside any longer. He wasn’t supposed to do this, to _have_ this. He’d sold his right to happiness along with his soul. He broke away from the kiss, despite Ezra’s tiny protest, and he knew he should put some distance between them but he couldn’t make his hands do it. “Oh, priest, what are you doing?” he asked instead. “How can you let me touch you, how can you stand me _near_ you?” He’d have liked to be able to say he didn’t sound plaintive, but his powers of self-delusion only extended so far.

Ezra went still, and when he pulled away Crowley let him go—but he didn’t go far _enough_ , only a few fingers, just so that they could see each other clearly. His breath was quick. “Me?” he asked, in a tone that suggested Crowley was being endearingly foolish. “How do you stand it, a human, middle-aged and soft, and I was no great beauty when I was young. Especially compared to your guildmate. Surely she’s more suitable.”

Crowley thought there was the slightest stress on _she_ , but that was beside the point. “None of that matters. None of that is anything you did to yourself.” That was the crux of the matter: everything wrong with him, he’d done to himself.

Ezra took a deep breath and leant forward again; Crowley tensed, but Ezra’s target was his shoulder and he rested his head there. When he went on Crowley could feel the air moving with his words. “My dear. You made a brave choice. Everyone makes choices that change them, yours are just more visible than most. But your choices wrote your story, and your story makes, well, you. And I wouldn’t change you for anything.”

Crowley had had a lot of moments lately when he’d really wished he could still read facial expressions beyond the very broadest strokes; it wouldn’t have done him much good to be able to see Ezra’s face. But if he didn’t trust Ezra to be telling him the truth, what was the point of any of it? “Can you,” he said, and had to pause and start again. “Can we just stay here for a while?” It wasn’t that he didn’t like kissing. He just—couldn’t, for a bit.

“As long as you like,” said Ezra.

* * *

Ezra let himself relax a bit more into Crowley’s embrace and made a conscious effort to keep his hands still. He cast about for an innocuous topic. “Well. I spent rather more time in the woods than was comfortable. What about you? You said some of your guildmembers were hurt, but what about Droxi?”

“She’s fine. She thinks I’m an idiot, but she’s fine.” Crowley’s voice was wry. “I’d have heard if anything had happened to Mhorduna, so how’s your druid? She was at Darkshore?”

“Quite well,” Ezra replied. “She took over for me so that I could have a few days to rest. She says it makes a nice change from skulking about as a cat.” Maka didn’t mind healing in the hospital setting. He rubbed his thumb over the ring, still new on his hand, and asked, “My dear, would you like to learn Darnassian? It really wouldn’t be difficult for you, I shouldn’t think.” It would give Crowley a way to talk to his kaldorei siblings that wasn’t the language of their enemies, and make a nice little project. Crowley’s Orcish accent was excellent, which boded well for his ability with a language so much closer to his own.

Crowley gave a considering hum, a shivery feeling, and said, “Could do, but if I’m going to pick up another language I’d rather Common. It’d be easier to pass off if anyone caught me at it, know one’s enemy and all that.”

Ezra nodded. “I can certainly manage that.” It would be a lovely time, if only he could keep from making a fool of himself. “Where would you like to start?”

“I can say a few things, though I'm sure my accent's nothing much,” said Crowley. “How about you explain them to me and we'll go from there?”

They spent a pleasant few hours on a language lesson. Crowley’s extremely limited vocabulary had a rather martial bent, so Ezra ran over some useful words that were less so. Of course, most of the very common verbs were also the irregular ones, and Crowley kept stopping in the middle of explanations to grouse dramatically about it. Ezra didn’t mind; Crowley was putting it on for his benefit, to make him laugh.

For his part Ezra enjoyed himself immensely, and not only because his position, still more than half in Crowley’s lap, felt so precisely where he belonged. He’d generally found teaching to be frustrating, but it seemed that having a quick student with whom one was also in love helped quite a bit.

* * *

By midday they’d laid tolerable groundwork. Crowley went down to the commons for food, as had somehow become traditional, and in truth he didn’t mind doing it. Somewhat to his surprise the bartender made conversation while he waited for a tray to be made up; Crowley supposed it was good for business to be friendly even to Illidari. There certainly weren’t many other customers, a pair of orcs playing a strategy game at a table in one corner, a draenei with a mug he didn’t drink from and a morose expression on his face, and the human woman from the jeweler’s. The meat on her plate was so rare it still smelt of blood. She didn’t dress like a mage, but there were plenty of people living in Dalaran who had no particular magical ability.

When the lunch tray arrived, the bartender handed it over with a cheerful smile and said, “Ezra mentioned you liked the fried oysters, so enjoy.” Crowley thanked her and set off up the stairs again.

They went over food and cooking words while they ate. Crowley had discovered he ate a bit more when he had an interesting conversation to distract him.

“You are very good at this,” said Ezra, when nothing but crumbs and fruit-hearts remained.

“You’re not the only one with a knack,” Crowley replied. “I’m told my accent’s quite good in Orcish. Helps to listen to things that aren’t regular conversations, I find, and I’ve developed a bit of a taste for the sagas. If you haven’t heard any, you should, they’re well worth the time.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” said Ezra. He gestured with his wine glass. “If you’d care to, I’d love to hear your interpretation.”

Crowley shrugged. “Oh, I can’t, I don’t know them properly. You’d need to find a skald, or someone who learnt from a skald.” He frowned. “I suppose that’s hard to come by for you.”

“Well, that’s a pity. I’m sure I’d enjoy it.” Ezra took a sip of his wine and continued, “You said you could stay until morning, so what are your plans?”

 _I plan to sit here smiling at you like the besotted fool I am_ probably wasn’t the best answer, though it was the only one that leapt immediately to mind. “Don’t really have any. Something you’d like to do?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought myself. It’s been a thoroughly pleasant day so far, my dear, and I do so enjoy your company.”

“Well. Likewise,” said Crowley, and laughed a little. “We’re ridiculous, you know. I’m sure we’re unbearable to be around.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re staying in this room. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience the other customers.” Ezra was clearly aiming for a light tone, but something in his voice sounded strained and Crowley held a brief internal debate. His paranoia won.

“What’s wrong, priest? You sound off.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Ezra. He put down his fork, the better to set his hands worrying at each other. “I must be more tired than I’d thought. My...well, my shadows are a bit restless.”

Crowley’s paranoia retired in triumph. “If you’re done eating, then, we should go sit back down.” They were of course already sitting, but he nodded in the direction of the sofa to make his meaning clear. The sofa was ridiculously plush and even he could tell it was gaudy, because the mages were incapable of doing anything subtly.

“My dear, are you sure? Of course I enjoy sitting with you, but it’s nothing of consequence. I’m fine. Tickety-boo.”

Crowley’s eyebrows made a break for his hairline. “I assume that means ‘good’, but in any case I can’t imagine where you got the idea that sitting with you is any kind of imposition on me.”

That drew a smile, at least. “Then I’m delighted to accept. When you’re quite finished eating, of course.”

Crowley set his fork firmly down. “Come and sit with me.”

Ezra stood, offering a hand; Crowley reminded himself firmly that Ezra didn’t mind touching his bare skin and took it.

They ended up with Crowley back in the corner of the sofa, with Ezra leaning back on him after being assured that of course he wasn’t too heavy, don’t be daft. “Right,” said Crowley. “Give me that verb again, the odd one.”

The language lesson proceeded until Ezra dozed off between one verb and the next. Crowley was content to let him sleep; he obviously needed it.

To Crowley’s vision, Ezra’s shadows were more a matter of texture than darkness _per se_ , and it took him some time to notice that they were occasionally visible even in the light—faint, but there, twining over him like long-tailed banners moving in the wind. Crowley found the sight more than slightly disturbing, but Ezra’s breath was calm and regular and rest could only help his control. Ezra was still getting over his dalliance with potions; no doubt Crowley was overthinking things, letting his anxiety get the better of him.

* * *

Mid-afternoon, Ezra stirred, mumbled, and lifted his head. “Oh. Oh dear, I fell asleep,” he said. “I fell asleep on you. I’m sorry.”

“You were in the field nearly a fortnight,” said Crowley. “Don’t get over that with one night’s sleep.”

Ezra sighed, and sat up straight. “Especially not at my age,” he said, sounding gloomy. “I just hate that I missed time with you.”

“We’ve both been right here. Anyway we’ll have other days.” Crowley’s hands itched to pull Ezra back.

Ezra turned and said seriously, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, my dear. I worry, every second we’re apart.”

“I can take care of myself,” Crowley protested. Ezra stared at him. “Yes, all right, look, here’s a promise I can keep: as long as it’s up to me, we’ll always have other days.” It wasn’t the promise he wanted to make; he wasn’t fit to offer that. _I will honor you always, defend you at need, share your tears and your joy. Though we may be parted in body our souls will never part, as long as the sun shines._ He’d been carefully not considering too closely the image of Ezra with a crown of _elanor_.

Ezra, meanwhile, looked down at his hands and twisted the ring around his finger. “As long as you’ll accept the same from me,” he said.

 _As you wish, I will do_. “It’s a deal.”

* * *

They spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening quietly. Despite his impromptu nap Ezra felt the need to retire early, much to his displeasure.

He didn’t know what time it was when his sleep was broken by the sound of knocking and Crowley getting out of bed with more haste than care. He struggled to something resembling consciousness and shoved himself up on one elbow as Crowley drew the bolt and opened the door. Ezra waved at the lamp.

“What is it?” Crowley asked, as Droxi stepped into the room.

“The bluecoats—” she began.

“Remember Ezra speaks Orcish,” said Crowley, with an apologetic grimace in Ezra’s direction. He shook his head in dismissal; they both were careful about sharing information that was relevant to the war.

“Right, right, okay,” said Droxi. “Just get your stuff, Mirimë wants you, I’ll explain on the way.” Crowley nodded; Ezra watched with a sinking heart as he turned to his bag. “I’m sorry to wake you up but if I hadn’t volunteered she’d have sent someone else and, uh…” She made a gesture that took in the fact that Crowley had obviously just gotten out of a bed he’d been sharing with a human.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Crowley briskly. “Priest, I have to go.”

 **He’s leaving us again** , the shadows muttered. Ezra clenched his fist to feel the ring press against his fingers and said, “Mind how you go, my dear.” He swallowed and looked at Droxi. When she met his eyes he switched to Goblin and said, “Thank you for coming, for protecting him.” She shrugged. “You know who my family is?”

“Yeah?” Droxi replied, with a clear overtone of _How is this relevant?_

“If you’re ever in need and can reach one of our shops, tell them my name and they’ll help you.”

Droxi blinked at him for a beat before replying, “Really. You might be alright after all.” Then in Orcish again, “Put on real pants, kiddo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Crowley looked back and forth between them, his eyebrows climbing; Ezra kept his mouth firmly shut and Droxi gave him a look of exaggerated innocence and pointedly turned her back. Crowley sighed. “Fine, right, I’m taking off my shirt, priest, turn around.” Ezra did, staring over the edge of the mattress, and listened miserably to the sounds of hasty dressing.

All too soon Crowley said, “I’ll see you when I can. Don’t get in trouble.” Ezra turned back to watch him stride towards the door, with Droxi at his side. Halfway there Crowley stopped, turned back, and hurried to the side of the bed. Ezra sat up and when Crowley bent down to kiss him he couldn’t help but rest his hand on Crowley’s cheek for a moment.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

Crowley smiled. “You too, priest,” he said, and then they were gone.

Ezra got up for just long enough to bolt the door and then slumped back into the bed, which was suddenly much too large. He ran his fingers over his lips, sighed, and reached over to pull Crowley’s pillow into his arms. He’d get a good night’s sleep, assuming the shadows would let him, and in the morning he’d be able to go back to Boralus.

And until morning, he could at least dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sunbursts:** The blood elves are all about sun imagery. Their whole motif is red and gold, they have a source of power called the Sunwell, their ruling family's surname for a long time was 'Sunstrider', etc. And Ezra's a priest of the Light, so that matches up nicely for ornamentation.


	20. Chapter 20

Ezra had stood up and stretched and gotten most of the way to the door before he noticed that the shadows were swirling over his skin, thicker than they’d been since Dazar’alor. “Oh, this won’t do,” he said to the empty room, and sat back down. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. The episodes were becoming more frequent and he was only glad he hadn’t had one while Crowley was there. Unless he’d unknowingly had one in his sleep.

Another thing to worry about that he couldn’t do a damn thing about. Splendid.

But the reason Crowley wasn’t there was that he’d gone off into danger, and Ezra bit his lip. They both had obligations, Crowley had said, and it was true but Ezra hated it, hated that Crowley had left him, left Dalaran.

**It’s safe here. He should have stayed here with us.**

Ezra ignored the whisper and laced his fingers together in his lap. A moment later he unlaced them, so he could turn the ring around where it sat on his third finger.

 **That doesn’t mean anything,** the shadows told him slyly. **To him it’s just a pretty decoration for his toy. If it meant anything, he’d have stayed with us.**

“He loves me,” said Ezra. No one was there to hear him talking to nothing.

 _ **You**_ **love _him_** , the shadows retorted. **He knows we’ll be here when he has the time to spare for a game, he knows you’re panting after him. He thinks it’s funny.**

“ _Shut up_ ,” Ezra snapped, and clenched his fist till the ring dug into his fingers. The tiny flare of pain was something to cling to and he concentrated on it to ground himself. The shadows’ voices began to fade at once but it took nearly a quarter of an hour for the passing clouds to dissipate.

When it had, he went down to the common room for breakfast.

* * *

Back in Boralus, Ezra took a slight detour to one of the posh shops that clustered around Admiral’s Plaza. The smell of well-tanned leather filled the air inside.

“Master Ezra!” the shopkeeper exclaimed. “Wonderful to see you.” Gregor Tannen was only a few years older than Ezra himself. He’d been quite a young man when his parents’ untimely deaths had made him responsible for his feral pack of younger siblings, and were it not for Ezra’s mother’s decision to loan him money he’d have lost his own family’s business.

He came out from behind the counter, smiling broadly, so that he and Ezra could exchange a handclasp. “I’m delighted to see you as well, and enough of that,” said Ezra. He hadn’t been the man’s master in years, if he ever was; Gregor had paid off his loan well before Ezra’s mother had died.

“Force of habit,” said Gregor genially. “What can I do for you?”

“How’s your family doing?”

“Oh, fine, fine. Sennia’s getting married in the summer.” She was the youngest of the siblings.

Ezra beamed. “I’ll have to be sure to send her a present, then, how lovely. No other news?”

“No, and thank the tides for that. _News_ goes with _bad_ too often for my tastes.”

Ezra nodded agreement and said, “Well, in that case, I have a favour to ask.”

“Name it,” said Gregor.

“I have a few new acquaintances, and I’ve told them that if they need assistance they can ask at my family’s clients. I’ll of course cover any expenses incurred. I was wondering if you could put the word out, as it were.” Gregor, as far as Ezra had ever been able to tell, knew _everyone_.

Gregor shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Do these new acquaintances have names, or at least descriptions?”

“One is a goblin woman,” said Ezra. He carefully didn’t specify that she was affiliated with the Horde; there were still goblins who refused faction allegiances. “The other is Illidari.”

There was a short pause while Gregor studied him. “And would this be the same Illidar who needed that bag back?”

Ezra had always admired Gregor’s shrewdness, and trusted him and his family implicitly, but it still felt dangerous. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, and hoped his smile didn’t look as forced as it felt. He put his hands behind his back, the better to worry at each other unobserved.

Gregor nodded. “All right. What was the name again, Crowley?”

“Correct,” he said. “But please—this needs to be kept as quiet as possible. No details. I just need people to know that those two are to be extended every courtesy.”

“Of course, I’m happy to,” said Gregor. He shrugged and said casually, “I’ve friends in Dalaran, you know.”

Ezra fought his face under control but his hands clenched on each other. “You have friends everywhere,” he replied. Even he could hear the tension in his voice.

“And none of them would want to stand between you and something that made you happy,” said Gregor.

“Ah. Yes. Of—of course not,” Ezra stuttered. Would it be terribly rude, he wondered, to take his leave? After all he did need to fetch the books he’d wanted. He turned his head in desperation and his gaze landed on a pack displayed on a shelf. “That’s new, isn’t it?”

Gregor smiled and said, “Yes, just finished. Windwrack is shaping up well, she did all the finishing on that and a fine job it is. We’ve got the style undyed as well as that black, if you like.”

“Black is perfect,” said Ezra firmly. “Put it on my account, with a bit over for your apprentice, if you’d be so kind.”

“I’ll have it sent to your guild’s rooms,” said Gregor, “ _Master_ Ezra.”

Ezra laughed, more from release of tension than anything else. “Thank you.”

* * *

He made a quick stop at the house he’d grown up in to gather some books and send a reply to the letter asking him to be sure to attend the spring meeting of the company’s board; he’d missed the winter meeting, having been in the field with the Archangels at the time. Ezra supposed he’d better go, though the prospect left him cold. He’d never dealt much with the day-to-day operations, but as long as he was required to exert a measure of control over his family’s company, he could use at least that control to make certain that policy didn’t drift towards malfeasance.

Minutiae accomplished he hurried back out, in the direction of the docks, the Them’s headquarters, and hopefully Mhorduna. Ezra wasn’t eager to go on assignment, but it would be better than sitting alone and fretting about Crowley. _He can take care of himself_ , he thought. _He can. He’s a grown man and he can take care of himself_.

 **He’s reckless**.

Ezra hadn’t worked up a retort when a hand landed on his shoulder. He spun, dropping his satchel to bring his hands up defensively, and the shadows leapt out eagerly. Down the block someone yelped in startlement.

“Whoa!” Mhorduna exclaimed. He took a hasty step back, spreading out his hands to show they were empty. “It’s me!”

“Oh my goodness,” Ezra gasped. The shadows collapsed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! You startled me.”

Mhorduna’s lips tightened and he didn’t reply for a moment. Spending so much time with Crowley had improved Ezra’s ability to recognise emotions despite covered eyes, and Mhorduna looked concerned. Ezra tried not to squirm under the assessment. “I did call you,” said Mhorduna at last. “Thinking about your books?”

“Yes,” said Ezra gratefully. He bent and picked up the bag, holding it out in illustration. “That’s what I’m here for, my books.”

Another pause; Ezra braced himself. But all Mhorduna said was, “I’m going to the White Hart for a bite to eat, like to join me?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Ezra. “I’m feeling ever so much better for a few days’ rest.” It had really been just over _one_ day, but he wasn’t going to mention that if Mhorduna wasn’t.

They started walking towards the tavern. “Keep an eye out for the Archangels,” said Mhorduna. “They’ve been asking for you again. I’ve told them you aren’t available but they don’t tend to hear it when someone tells them _no_.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep telling them,” Ezra replied.

* * *

They’d mostly moved from eating to talking when Mhorduna broke off in the middle of a sentence with a muttered curse.

“I beg your pardon?” Ezra asked, startled.

Mhorduna said grimly, “They’re here,” and then Gabriel and Michael were at the table, standing close enough that Mhorduna had to look up to speak to them. “I’ve told you he’s not available,” he said, as Gabriel opened his mouth.

Unusually, both of the Archangels wore civilian clothes rather than their armour, but it hardly mattered; arrogance still radiated from Gabriel like heat from a fire, and Michael’s face showed more smug self-assurance than fur and a muzzle should have allowed. If Gabriel was discomfited by Mhorduna’s pre-emptive attack, he didn’t show it. “He can decide for himself, can’t you, Ezra?” said Gabriel genially. He clapped Ezra on the shoulder, too hard, and let his hand rest there in an uncomfortably possessive manner. “You can’t tell me you’re having fun with these small-timers.”

Ezra wanted to roll his eyes. Gabriel either didn’t recall their last few conversations or was pretending he didn’t, and either way it was terribly insulting. “I would never disrespect my guildmaster that way,” he said. The shadows rather wanted to punch Gabriel in the nose for being a prat yet again, and he reluctantly restrained them. “And if I’m being honest—I don’t want to. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to attend to.” He plucked Gabriel’s hand from his shoulder with his left hand, picked up his bag with his right, and stood, ignoring the irritated stares of the two Archangels. “I’ll see you later, boss,” he said, and if there was just a bit of emphasis on the title, that was purely coincidental.

* * *

Dalaran was the city of mages, and its streets were clean, well-lit, and safe.

Its Underbelly was none of those things.

Michael waited until no one was in immediate view before slipping into the stairway below the Violet Citadel. She wore her fully-human form, not wanting to have a sensitive nose in the catacombs. Besides, most people knew her as furry, one way or another, so her human face was less likely to be recognized. That blood elf hadn’t recognised her, for example.

Her footsteps echoed on the stone-brick walls as she went down the stairs. At the bottom she skirted the ramshackle guard post, crewed by whichever members of the Dalaran Watch had drawn the short straw this week, but they weren’t paying attention; they rarely did. Only once or twice had she been forced to use her cat-form’s natural stealth to evade them. If they'd been her people she'd have knocked them into shape, but in this case the laxness worked to her advantage.

She avoided the sluggish trickle of murky water that flowed down the center of the tunnel, counting side passages as she went. If any of the mages knew how their city had come to possess this veritable labyrinth of tunnels beneath its streets, they hadn’t told anyone else.

She turned left and descended another flight of stairs, this one wooden and rickety, into the largest cavern of the Underbelly. People lived down here; Michael didn’t know how they could stand it. She wound through the irregular pathways of the small shantytown to one of the ramshackle structures, and pushed aside the ragged drape that covered the doorway. Inside, a candle burnt on a three-legged table that looked not quite up to the task of supporting its weight.

One of the shadows took more definite shape, and the person she’d come to see stepped out of it. “You’re late, _kitty_ ,” said Ligur, in his excellent Common. He shoved a chair in her direction with one foot. It was filthy, but she’d known better than to wear anything that she couldn’t stand to get dirty; the chair appeared to be structurally sound at least. She sat.

“Couldn’t be helped,” said Michael, as Ligur took a seat of his own and set his elbows on the table. His eyes flared red and then yellow as the candle’s light moved over his face. “I have some very interesting news.”

“Fft,” said Ligur. “Better be. I’m bored, kitty. Nothing big coming up, and you haven’t got me my toy.” He’d arranged the chairs so that neither of them sat with their back to the doorway, and unlike many of the shantytown’s ‘buildings’ this one had a roof—formed by the floor of the room built on top of it—but they both stayed alert; the Underbelly was no place for the faint of heart or inattentive.

“Funny you should mention that,” said Michael, all but purring in satisfaction. “That blood elf, the Illidar. What’s his name?”

Ligur’s lip drew up into a sneer, an impressive effect around his short tusks. “Which one? They’re all scum.” A rustle in the corner made them both turn; Ligur drew a knife and threw, quick as thought, and the target squealed. “Pests, might as well be rats.”

Michael had no love for the Illidari herself, and one fewer Hordie hanging about was only for the good. “The one who was playing with your toy out in the desert the last time we hit Vol’dun. Ginger, skinny enough to hide behind a flagpole.”

Ligur’s eyebrows went up. “Skinny and red-headed, that must be Crawly. He’s a bloody nuisance, always bleating about not killing people. A waste, like all his kind, and worse because at least you can usually count on Illidari to understand when something needs to die. He can’t even get being a freak right.” He studied her for a moment. “Why? You looking for a toy of your own?”

Michael leant back in her chair, cautiously, and made sure not to allow her distaste to show; she didn’t care for the kind of games Ligur played with his ‘toys’. “I don’t give a damn about him, but you will. A bit ago I saw him buying a ring. Pretty thing, rose gold, engraved with sunbursts. And a few days later, guess who was wearing that ring? I’ll give you three guesses but the first two don’t count.”

She was well aware that Ligur considered her valuable as a source of information, so she didn’t jump when he slammed a dagger into the surface of the table, burying it almost to the hilt. “No one spends time with Illidari willingly. No one is that stupid, not even my toy,” Ligur snarled. Michael returned a level gaze. “Stop spouting nonsense and tell me where I can find him.”

“I’m telling you what I saw.” Experience had taught her that it wouldn’t do any good to suggest he find a different playmate; not once had she managed to dissuade or even distract Ligur, once he’d chosen his prey. At least Fallwater would be no great loss. She’d been privately, if reluctantly, impressed by his willingness to come back repeatedly; most would have given up. But coming back wasn’t much use if you didn’t keep fighting afterward.

Ligur’s eyes darkened and he shoved his chair back so he could stand up and come closer to loom over her. “Give him to me, kitty. You wanted him off-limits for anything permanent, but conditions have changed.”

“I can’t. His guild leader won’t let us near him, got snippy that we weren’t shielding the healers well enough.” She rolled her eyes. “ _Sit_ down. I can’t give him to you, but he’s connected to this Crawly—you can use that.”

Ligur breathed out hard, his jaw clenched, but he went back to his chair. “I saw him topside once, and the freak was nearby,” he said, anger shading into thought in his voice. “But here I can’t take him. I’m not afraid of the Watch, but they’d interfere. Can’t you convince his guildmaster?”

Michael shrugged and said, “They only work with us when they’re ordered to. I’ve got no leverage anymore. But listen to me, Ligur.” She leant forward over the table. “Fallwater is wearing the Illidar’s ring, and for humans that means something. It’s a symbol of _marriage_. If you and your Forsaken friend can’t make something out of that, I don’t know what I can do for you.”

Ligur’s brow furrowed. “The freak’s guildmaster won’t cooperate, we’ve tried before. But if you’re telling me the truth…”

“Ligur, you must know you can trust me,” said Michael sweetly.

He growled at her, mostly for show, and wrenched his dagger out of the table in a groan of stressed wood. “A band of trolls are planning to do a little sightseeing around Waycrest Manor,” he said, bending to retrieve the other knife. “Young fools. They need to learn to be more cautious.”

“Thanks,” said Michael, and stood. “Fallwater and your elf have been spending a lot of time in Dalaran, as far as I can tell, but there are other places. Places where the Horde and the Alliance are both welcome, where the guards might be too far off to hear.” Places the two of _them_ had used, when occasion called for it. She let her lips curl into her most charming smile. “Are you planning to go to the Faire?”

Slowly, Ligur smiled in return. “I’ve heard it will be spectacular,” he said, and reached for the drape over the door; they’d been working together long enough that neither worried about giving the other their back. By the time he’d stepped outside her human eyes couldn’t find him.

Michael waited a few minutes to give him time to get well away before blowing out the candle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Underbelly:** There are caverns/tunnels/sewers beneath Dalaran, forming a lovely wretched hive. Normally you can't do player-vs-player combat down there, but the guards can be bribed to stop paying attention and then it's every character for themself. The Underbelly has a special currency that you need to buy some crafting recipes, special pets, mounts, vanity items, etc, and there's also a black market auction house.
> 
>  **The Faire:** Starting the first Sunday of every month and running for a week is the Darkmoon Faire (which is not actually synched to the phase of the moon, much to your faithful author's displeasure). It's mostly a carnival, with a touch of Renn Faire. On the actual fairgrounds you can't attack other players, but it's held on an island that you reach by portals and the no-pvp area doesn't cover the whole thing. Our version is quarterly, for the solstices and equinoxes.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: This chapter contains mention of Crowley's disordered eating.

It had been a long time since Crowley thought of anywhere as home; the various rooms he’d stayed in the last several years had been just that: places to stay. But he _remembered_ , and flickering into being in the colonnaded hall that the Kirin Tor’s hearthstone led to was starting to feel like that.

He had not spent a great deal of time in the Legerdemain during the final assault on the Legion, not like Droxi who’d taken a room for the duration even if she didn’t sleep there every night. Therefore the route couldn’t have been all that familiar.

But the feeling was exactly as he remembered it.

He barely waved at the staff, eager to get back to Ezra’s room (their room, though he couldn’t let himself think of it that way) after nearly two weeks apart. To his dismay it was unoccupied, and the spot where the priest usually kept his bag was empty. However there was another bag on the table, one Crowley had never seen before. The leather was excellently tanned, smooth under his fingers, and from the smell of it newly-dyed; on the clasp was engraved a fruiting tree next to a waterfall. Crowley had seen that symbol on some of Ezra’s gear. A note that sat propped against the bag read simply _For you_ and Crowley smiled. He had three days; he could wait.

At least, that was the theory. In practice he’d never been good at waiting, and being alone in the too-large room didn’t help. With no assignments to focus on, his mind presented him with worries instead. The more he looked at the bag, the more it felt like a parting gift, but that couldn’t be right—the room still had books and papers scattered over every flat surface, like an explosion had gone off in a library, and surely Ezra would never abandon his books. Would he?

No amount of reassuring himself worked. Even after he gave up in disgust and went to bed, he couldn’t rest. He dozed off and woke again half a dozen times; getting out of bed to lie on the sofa was no better. He even tried the floor but it was no good. Crowley stalked around the room like a caged cat, picking things up at random and putting them back down. He ran aground on the herbary, running his fingers over the spine. Ezra had _said_ these books were precious to him. He wouldn’t have left them.

First light was creeping into the room and outside Dalaran’s birds were obnoxiously cheerful when someone knocked on the door. Torn out of his resentful glare at the new bag, Crowley turned to look, and the band of anxiety around his chest loosened abruptly at the silhouette. It wasn’t really Dalaran that felt like home.

* * *

Ezra arrived at the inn to the happy news that Crowley had come in the previous afternoon. He debated with himself for a moment—it was so very early, and Crowley would have to get out of bed to unbolt the door—but in the end his desire to see Crowley as soon as possible won out. He took breakfast up on a tray with him as a mollifying offering.

He knocked, and waited. **What a good little pet you are** , said the shadows slyly. **If you had a tail you’d wag it.**

 _Be quiet_ , he thought furiously. The shadows had fastened onto this theme with glee and nothing Ezra told them could make them stop. He took a resolute breath and concentrated on how pleased he was to be back, and by the time the door opened he thought his smile looked sincere.

“Hello, priest,” said Crowley. Ezra could have stood there studying his smile for hours, but the tray was rather heavy so he moved past.

“I’ve missed you so terribly, my sun,” he said, and took the tray over to the table before the sofa. As he set it down he noticed a dark swirl flirting around his wrist, and shook his hand to banish it. When he straightened up, however, Crowley had not closed the door, nor even turned. “Is something wrong?”

“ _What_ did you say?” Crowley asked. He sounded breathless.

Ezra clasped his hands, feeling as if solid ground had shifted under his feet. “That I missed you terribly,” he said tentatively. **Said the wrong thing again, haven’t you?**

“Sun,” said Crowley, and finally turned, swinging the door shut with the movement. “Did you call me ‘my sun’?”

Ezra hesitated. _Had_ he said that?

**We did. He doesn’t like it.**

“Well, yes,” he said, hearing his voice taking on the querulous edge that he hated. “I...must have slipped?”

Crowley’s face slid from surprise into unhappiness and Ezra put his hands behind his back in an effort to hide the shadows he could feel winding through his fingers. “No, it’s, is that—is that a thing humans say? For us, well, we have a _Sunwell_.”

“Oh, well, people say all sorts of things. Little star, or sunshine, or—all sorts of things.” **You said that already.** “When we’re friends. Close friends.” He couldn’t bear watching Crowley’s face and looked back down to the tray. **He’s going to leave us again if you’re not more careful.**

With an effort of will Ezra didn’t flinch when Crowley’s hand landed on his shoulder; he’d learnt that Crowley would take it entirely the wrong way. He gave in to the gentle pressure and dragged his gaze back to Crowley’s face.

“I’m not offended, or whatever you’re thinking,” said Crowley. “I’m just surprised, alright?”

Ezra put his hands flat on Crowley’s chest and sighed. “It’s only that I always seem to say the wrong thing.”

“I just said it’s fine. Come on now, I think you need to eat something. I’m sure I do.”

Ezra brightened a hair. Any opportunity to get Crowley to eat. “Jolly good,” he said, making an effort to sound cheerful. He sat on the sofa so that he could lean on the right arm of it, and bent forward to examine the tray. To his disappointment Crowley dropped down on the other end, with his back against that arm, but he stretched his legs across and prodded Ezra gently with the toes of one foot. He wasn’t wearing stockings or socks and Ezra tried to remember if he’d ever seen Crowley’s bare feet before.

“Hand me something, don’t care what,” said Crowley, breaking the train of thought.

“Of course,” said Ezra, and applied himself to making up a plate.

* * *

Crowley had long since gotten over the urge to poke his food in an uninterested way before eating it; he had to eat and it was often even enjoyable, so he might as well get to it. Watching Ezra eat helped immensely; he was so obviously, and often audibly, delighted.

They made idle conversation while they ate, discussing their recent exploits in vague terms. Ezra talked more than Crowley did, but he hardly minded that. Ezra’s accent was barely there, hidden in the rounding of his vowels and lurking in the sibilants, and Crowley could’ve listened to it all day, no matter the subject.

When the food was picked over and the plates set aside, though, his gaze fell on his own feet and he hit paralysis again, the night’s worries crowding in. He couldn’t imagine what he’d been thinking, letting himself casually touch like that; nearly everyone he’d interacted with in the past several years, aside from other Illidari, had made it perfectly plain that touching wasn’t allowed. Words weighed nothing. It didn’t matter what Ezra had absently called him. 

It did not matter how much he wanted to hear it again.

With all the care he’d have employed in evading the attention of an inquisitor, Crowley drew the offending appendage back. Not carefully enough, though; he froze as Ezra broke off in the middle of a sentence and wrapped his hand around Crowley’s retreating ankle. Because of _course_ Ezra could have the forest come to aggressive life around him without noticing, but he spotted Crowley moving right away. His thumb swept back and forth over the knob of bone and he said, “You wouldn’t deprive me, my dear, would you?”

Crowley scrabbled together enough wit to speak. “Deprive you of what?” He was melting, and Ezra wasn’t even touching his bare skin.

Ezra’s hand crept up Crowley’s shin and he discovered he was holding his breath like bracing for a hit. He started breathing again as Ezra replied, “The sweetest part of the meal.”

Crowley swallowed and tried to make his tone light, but even he could hear that he wasn’t making it. “You’re going to be the death of me, priest.”

“The Light forbid it,” Ezra murmured. He sounded immensely pleased and he’d begun to lean in Crowley’s direction, and Crowley hadn’t survived as long as he had without learning to spot the inevitable—nor did he care to try to avert it.

“Come here, then,” he said.

* * *

Ezra knew quite well that the proper thing to do was release his grip and move to sit closer. The shadows didn’t care what was proper. **He invited us. We can make sure he can’t leave,** they said pragmatically. **He’ll try to escape, he always does.**

 _Oh, that’ll never do_ , Ezra thought. He watched surprise spread over Crowley’s face as he turned. He didn’t let go of his hold on Crowley’s ankle until he was on hands and knees. Crowley swallowed, looking up, and Ezra leant down the last few inches to whisper, “Is this close enough?”

“Not quite,” said Crowley, and Ezra couldn’t help but be enchanted by his stubborn, fruitless attempt to sound insouciant. Crowley’s free arm came up to drape around Ezra’s shoulders. The pressure was gentle, but Ezra made no effort to resist it. When they were chest to chest, he tucked his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck and shoulder and sighed in contentment.

“I have four days,” they said. “We can spend them all here.”

“Couldn’t drag me away with an elekk,” Crowley replied. He sounded breathless. Ezra liked it. “Though I suppose we’ll have to get up sometime.” A moment passed; Ezra mostly succeeded in not laughing. “To eat, that is.”

“Mmmm, yes,” said Ezra, and kissed his neck. Crowley made a noise that contained no vowels. “But we’re heroes. We’re expected to face some hardness in battle.”

“ _What_ ,” said Crowley.

Ezra made their voice innocent and said, “Oh, that’s the wrong word. I meant _difficulty_ , of course.” The shadows wanted to roll their hips; Ezra restrained them. They pouted. _We’ll scare him_ , he thought sternly.

“You’ve seen me in battle, priest, this isn’t it,” said Crowley, with an air of clinging to a train of thought that made sense. He squirmed a bit to free the arm that had been trapped between his body and the sofa back and wrapped it around Ezra’s waist. **Fun** , he thought, shifting a little to kiss the corner of Crowley’s mouth.

Aloud, they said, “Are you surrendering already? Such a pity.” Beneath him Crowley was relaxing at last, sinking into the secure space between their body and the cushions.

Crowley turned his head until his cheek rested in Ezra’s hair and said, “I surrendered a long time ago.” The words were hardly more than a whisper. “You’ve won, it was a glorious victory. What do you want in tribute?”

Ezra’s lips pulled into a smirk it was just as well Crowley couldn’t see. That question had such a simple answer. “I suppose I’ll take you.” He sat back a bit so they could lay a hand on Crowley’s cheek and kiss him properly.

* * *

Crowley felt _pinned_ , and he couldn’t recall the last time anything had felt so safe. By the time he could bear to pull away he was gasping as if he _had_ been in a fight. “You can’t ask for something you already have.”

Ezra said, “Really?” and something in him had changed. But that wasn’t right; it was only Crowley’s own fears again, back to ruin something else for him.

“Yeah, yes, of course,” he said. “Pick something else.” Light and teasing, he hoped, though neither of those was a particular strength. In his arms Ezra seemed to deflate, and laid his head back down on Crowley’s shoulder. He was trembling, barely perceptible even pressed as close as they were.

“There’s nothing more that I want, my dear,” said Ezra. He sounded hesitant all of a sudden, and his hand crept up to graze his fingers over Crowley’s coin.

"Not going to take advantage of your victory? You're very gracious." He was mostly certain that he was allowed to run one hand through Ezra's hair—fortunate, because it wasn’t clear he’d be able to prevent himself doing it anyway. Ezra shrugged and settled down a little more firmly and Crowley almost literally could not believe it. He could touch, was _welcome_ to touch, and he felt his uncertainties melting away like snow in running water. Ezra had abandoned the coin; instead his fingers slipped beneath the loose laces of the shirt Crowley wore to sleep in to trace shivery trails over his breastbone, and it would have been perfect if they hadn’t ventured a bit too close to the fel-marks that ran jagged over his shoulders.

Crowley freed his hand from Ezra’s hair and nudged the wandering fingers towards clean skin. “Be careful, priest, you don’t want to touch those.”

Ezra made a small, disgruntled noise, took Crowley’s hand, placed it firmly back on his own head, and put his hand back down, fingers spread—over the shirt this time, and over Crowley’s heart. He’d thought his heart was useless for anything but moving his blood, that the fel had burnt any other function out of it. “As you wish, my dear,” said Ezra, and that was it, that was going to be how Crowley _died_ , Ezra was going to say that one day in all innocence and that would be the end of it.

“You’re warm,” he said. Once he heard it aloud it didn’t sum up his feelings nearly as well as he’d thought it would, but Ezra didn’t seem to mind.

* * *

Ezra hummed contentedly, even as it occurred to him that he didn’t really remember getting into this position; hadn’t they been finishing up their breakfast? But he felt not at all inclined to argue with the results, not with Crowley’s hand petting slowly through his hair. “I have four days. We can spend them all here.”

The hand paused for a moment. “You said, yes. I have two, counting today.”

Ezra pushed puzzlement away. He’d stayed awake to finish his paperwork and leave Boralus as soon as he could; it was no wonder he was tired enough to repeat himself. But he hated to lose another day with Crowley to sleeping; he opened his mouth, unsure of what was going to emerge from it other than words that would keep him awake. “Two days, that’s lovely, we’ll have to find something to do.”

He could feel Crowley’s chuckle in his chest. “Anything you like, priest. But when you’ve had a bit more rest, yeah?”

Ezra slumped, as much as he could slump. Loathe as he was to admit it, he really did need some rest. He spent a moment gathering his willpower, but when he made to sit up Crowley’s arms tightened.

“No, no, none of that, where do you think you’re going?”

“You just said I needed to sleep, my dear. I can hardly sleep _on_ you.” Their position couldn’t be comfortable, even if he granted it was desired.

“Don’t be daft,” said Crowley. By now Ezra could tell when he was pretending to be irritated to cover some other emotion. “If I wanted you moved, I’d move you.” Ezra wavered. “Come _here_.”

Authority figures had been calling Ezra stubborn his whole life; he preferred to think of it as strength of will, and very useful it was to someone who handled magic regularly. But he’d never claimed to be good at resisting his own appetites; he gave in to the gentle pressure, with no attention to spare for wondering why he felt he’d done it before.

“Don’t let me sleep too long,” he said, with Crowley’s heartbeat steady in his ear.

“As you wish,” said Crowley softly, and Ezra slept.

* * *

It took only a few minutes for Crowley to notice that Ezra once again had shadows winding over him, still faint but still undeniable. He’d seen priests calling the shadows many times, some of them even before Illidan, and he didn’t think it had been so _spooky_. Then again the priest in question had never before been Ezra, which coloured his feelings, and he was no expert but he doubted that the shadows being visible during sleep could be a good sign. Especially since Ezra claimed to hate using them.

But Crowley wasn’t going to wake Ezra to talk about it; time enough for that later.

He dozed a bit himself, making up for his broken night, and was just beginning to consider what might constitute ‘too long’ when Ezra stirred. Watching him wake up was nearly as fascinating as watching him eat.

“I seem to spend a great deal of time sleeping on you,” said Ezra through a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Not even midday,” Crowley told him. Ezra nodded against his neck and sat up; this time Crowley let him go, and tried to stretch surreptitiously.

“We should go somewhere,” said Ezra. “We can’t go out in public here, but there must be somewhere. We should have a _picnic_ , somewhere people won’t see us.”

Crowley thought about it for a moment, and felt the grin spreading over his face. “Ever been to Northrend, priest?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elekk:** Large elephant-like creature.
> 
>  **Northrend:** The world's northernmost continent, where the Lich King had his stronghold.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: This chapter contains mention of Crowley's disordered eating.

Ezra suspected that, left to his own devices, he’d have dithered and delayed enough to make starting out that afternoon impractical. With Crowley around to chivvy him into making decisions, things went much faster, even accounting for having the inn staff pack them food and Crowley spending half an hour on an errand he refused to elaborate upon; it was barely two hours later that they were ready to set out.

Or at least, so Ezra thought until Crowley said, “Just need a minute to armour up.”

“You’re going to put on your armour?” Ezra sounded disappointed even to himself.

Crowley shrugged. “I don’t expect trouble, but stranger things have happened. Speaking of, what’ve you got with you?”

Ezra had, in fact, brought all his field gear; they’d had one unexpected, middle-of-the-night callout and who knew if it might happen again? However, “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

Crowley straightened, his vambraces dangling from his hand by their laces, and gave him a skeptical look. “The place is called the _Grizzly_ Hills, priest, and there’s a reason for that. If I thought we were likely to meet a bear in a bad mood we’d be going somewhere else, but on the off-chance it happens, being prepared for a fight will be pretty sodding necessary. So put your gear on.”

Reluctantly Ezra turned to his own things. “It’s so uncomfortable,” he grumbled.

“Being discorporated is a lot more uncomfortable,” said Crowley severely, as he began the mildly comical process of shoving himself into his cuirass.

Ezra picked up his gloves and flourished them in Crowley’s direction. “They don’t even match!”

“They don’t even _match_ ,” Crowley replied, his tone dripping incredulity. “I’m sure the bears will be laughing behind your back for wearing gloves that _don’t even match_.”

“Well why should I need to?” Ezra asked. “You’ll be there.”

“Because if I have to fight I’ll be distracted worrying about you!” Crowley snapped. He yanked the cuirass straight on his shoulders and began tightening straps, his movements jerky in a way they rarely were.

“Oh,” said Ezra, feeling his rising irritation draining away.

“ _Oh_ ,” Crowley parroted.

Ezra smoothed out the wrinkles in his gloves. “I’ll just bring my dagger and book as well, shall I?”

Crowley took a heavy breath, huffed it out again, and said more calmly, “Thank you.”

* * *

Ezra had never seen the transport crystal in Dalaran; he knew of its existence because it was the reason Makavi went through this city on her pilgrimages. It still led to Crystalsong Forest in the heart of Northrend, whence she could fly north. He and Crowley had other plans.

The magic of the transport felt odd, not quite like a hearthstone or the portals he’d gotten used to, but the results were entirely satisfactory; the small stone dais faded away around them, replaced by a broad courtyard ringed in ruins. Elven ruins, from what he could read in the remaining lines of the architecture, which was no surprise; elven kingdoms had covered huge swaths of the world, thousands of years ago. Around the edges stood the crystalline ‘trees’ that gave the area its name.

He turned in a full circle to take it in, reveling in the feeling of being away from prying eyes, as Crowley set down some of his burdens to get at the bundle he’d had under his arm. One of the things he put down was his bag, and Ezra’s giddy pleasure dimmed. It was his _old_ bag, the one Ezra had found for him in the Arathi Highlands—the repair on the shoulder strap was clearly visible. “Oh,” said Ezra before he could think better of it, “I suppose the new one wasn’t to your taste after all.” **He doesn’t like your gifts. He can’t stand to touch us for long. Soon enough the truth will come out.**

“Don’t be daft,” said Crowley. “I haven’t taken the time to swap everything over yet, that’s all, and I didn’t want it to get damaged so soon.” **Excuses** , the shadows sneered. Crowley, who of course couldn’t hear them, continued blithely, “We have to get out of Crystalsong because something about the ambient magic isn’t good for plants, and walking would take days longer than we’ve got. Fortunately, I have a solution.” He unfurled the bundle with a flourish and it turned out to be a large, elaborately-patterned...blanket? Carpet? It was obviously magical; Ezra could feel that much from where he stood. “It’s amazing what you can hire in Dalaran.”

“Hire?” said Ezra, and studied it more carefully. The red and silver lines of the pattern stood out against black as if they were glowing; now that he looked, its purpose was obvious. He wondered how much the owner would want for it. Horses and gryphons and such were lovely, but a carpet didn’t need to be stabled or fed. “If you’d mentioned we’d need to fly I could have sent for my gryphon.”

“Gryphons aren’t comfortable for two people,” said Crowley, and grimaced. “Especially when one of them’s me. Animals get testy unless they’re trained for Illidari. Shall we?” He bent to transfer things from the pavement to the carpet without waiting for an answer. Ezra took a step towards it and then hesitated.

“I do hope you’re trained as well,” he said, “I’ve heard that these can be quite, erm, difficult to handle?”

“How hard can it be?” said Crowley breezily. Ezra froze, and Crowley laughed. “You should see your face right now. Yes, priest, I know how to control it. It won’t even be cold.” Never let it be said that Ezra couldn’t take a little joke at his own expense, and besides Crowley looked so terribly amused that it was easy to smile back. Ezra stepped onto the carpet and took a seat—and if he was exactly in the middle of the thing, he felt it was only prudent.

As advertised, Crowley made their conveyance lift off without a hitch, and they arrowed east. The carpet travelled so fast that the land beneath was a blur, but its magic made sure they didn’t even get their hair ruffled. All in all it would have been much more pleasant than flying on something with wings, if it hadn’t been utterly terrifying. Ezra mostly resisted the urge to dig his fingers into the pile, and reminded himself several times that Crowley knew what he was doing.

It took about two hours to reach the edge of Crystalsong Forest. Crowley took them over the line of jagged-topped hills that cut across their path with more panache than caution, but he was enjoying himself so much that Ezra didn’t have the heart to ask him to slow down. On the far side the land opened out again, gentle-sloped hills covered in towering pines.

They flashed across a river. Ezra just had time to notice they were descending before they were also slowing down, and they landed without even a jolt in a clearing so perfectly circular that it would have looked unnatural if it hadn’t been for the untidy scatter of hand-high seedlings.

“Here we are,” said Crowley. He offered Ezra a hand up, which Ezra wouldn’t have refused for all the gold in the world, and not only because he was stiff all over from two hours of moderate terror. On his feet he shook out his tunic, trying to smooth the wrinkles.

“It’s lovely,” he said sincerely. The landscape was beautiful in a less uncanny way than Crystalsong, and Ezra’s seldom-used commercial instincts fell instantly in love with the tall straight pines—excellent mast material. The sun was still high and the sky a rich blue, and Ezra wanted to sit down a moment, on something that _wasn’t moving_ , to enjoy it. He bent cautiously to their supplies for a blanket and shook it out. “Let’s have a bite to eat before we go looking.” He spread the blanket out in a sunny spot.

“I suppose it is about that time,” said Crowley. Ezra could tell without even looking that he was smiling. **You’re so amusing. Look how smug he is, watching you prattle.** Ezra carefully ignored the whisper and twitched the blanket flat.

“You don’t eat enough, my dear,” he said.

“So you’ve said,” Crowley replied easily. He transferred their food hamper and to the blanket as Ezra sat down.

“And I’ll say it again if I have to,” Ezra told him. “Come and join me.” Crowley did, though instead of sitting opposite (which would have been acceptable) or right next to him (as Ezra would have preferred), he ended up at a right angle, as if they formed two sides of a square, with their knees not quite touching. **See? We’re right.**

Crowley sighed. “I forget to,” he said, like admitting to a sin.

“Well, I’ll remind you,” said Ezra. He didn’t know what it was about tilting his head a little that made Crowley do things he asked, but he was capable of taking advantage, in a good cause. **You’re pathetic.** “And when I’m not with you, try a little harder to remember?”

Crowley handed over a sandwich and said, “I’m not starving, priest.”

Ezra made a show of looking him up and down. “Nevertheless.”

“Yes, alright, anything you like,” Crowley grumbled. “I promise I’ll eat more, alright?” It wasn’t quite what Ezra had wanted but it was close enough that he decided to count it as a victory. **You might as well just tell him you think he’s scrawny.** He concentrated on getting the sandwich out of its waxed-paper wrapping in the hopes of curtailing further commentary, and as a result Crowley’s voice startled him. “What colour’s your hair?” Ezra looked up and Crowley smiled the crooked smile that meant he was thinking terrible things about himself again. He set down his sandwich and took Crowley’s hand. “I’ve just got—probably not black?”

 **How long have we known him and he’s only just asking? He’s not even pretending.** Aloud, Ezra said, “Blond. Well, white. Both. More on the white side now, I’m afraid.”

“Very thematic of you,” said Crowley. **Very middle-aged of you** , said the shadows slyly. “Eyes? I need to know these things.”

Ezra pulled his hand out of Crowley’s grip. He had to hope it wasn’t obvious that he’d done it because the shadows were sneaking around his fingers. Fortunately there was a wine bottle within reach and he handed it over. “Open this, would you? My eyes are very changeable really, but most often they’re blue. Pale blue.”

Crowley bent over the bottle industriously. “Blue, really, like a kaldora? Though I suppose yours wouldn’t glow.”

 **Now he’s just making fun**. “Oh, nothing like that,” Ezra protested. “All elves have such wonderful eyes, mine are just eyes.”

An unreadable expression flashed across Crowley’s face but he said, “Theirs are wonderful for elves, yours are wonderful for a human.” **He means for a pet**. Ezra couldn’t come up with a response.

* * *

The cork was stubborn, which at least provided Crowley with an excuse not to look up. Ezra hadn’t meant anything by it. All elves had wonderful eyes—except Illidari. And he couldn’t even deny he’d done it to himself.

At last he worried the cork loose, and glanced up to discover Ezra had set out cups. Plain, sturdy ceramic, but Crowley filled them with a flourish and sketched a bow as he passed Ezra’s over. He drank his own wine down at a draught. Ezra laughed, which had been the intended effect, and Crowley shifted his weight. “I think I’m sitting on a pinecone,” he said.

“However can you tell, in all that?”

“Sneaky little bastards, pinecones, and it’s not as if I’m wearing plate. Not exactly a paladin,” he said, ignoring the subtext. The offender was easy enough to extract, and Crowley stretched his legs out so he could lean back on his elbows and turn his face to the sun. A paladin: a lovely thought. Maybe if Ezra’s Light loved him like it loved Ezra, he could feel as if he deserved any of this.

Not that it mattered; Ezra, inexplicably, had offered and Crowley was too selfish to refuse.

Ezra’s fingers on his neck broke his train of thought and he shivered as Ezra’s thumb brushed over the delicate skin below his ear. “There’s no need to go looking for herbs, you know,” said Ezra. His touch was so warm and Crowley couldn’t stop himself leaning into it, chasing the warmth.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Crowley asked, with deliberately overdone innocence. It had been so long, so long since he’d been _wanted_.

“I suggest staying here, so I can watch you bask in the sun,” Ezra replied.

“We’ll have to pitch the tent,” he said, more than half-distracted. “But there’s no rush.” Here and now the sun was frail, but the Light in Ezra made up for that and Crowley couldn’t help but crave it. Surely his darkness couldn’t stand up to Ezra’s light.

* * *

The play of muscle under his fingers was fascinating. Crowley didn’t move away from Ezra’s touch as long as it was enjoyable for him, it seemed. **Let’s play a game. Like with flowers, you know that game.**

Ezra twisted until his weight rested on his hip and leant closer until he could kiss Crowley’s jaw. **He loves you. He loves you not**. Crowley turned his head to catch Ezra’s lips with his own and cupped Ezra’s chin in his hand, carefully, as if what he held were rare and precious and delicate.

**He loves you.**

As a concession to the peaceful atmosphere, Crowley had left off his armoured cap, and his neat plait trailed down the back of his cuirass. Ezra worked his fingers into the gathered hair at the base of it and tugged his head back. Crowley made a tiny, wordless noise. **He loves you not**.

Ezra kissed his neck and murmured, “Just enjoy your sun, and let me enjoy mine.” **He loves you**.

“You’re my sun,” said Crowley. “You’re my light.” He sounded breathless and Ezra felt a satisfied smile forming on his own face, the shadows were _wrong_ and their game was foolish and—

—and Crowley all but threw himself away, landing in an undignified sprawl half off the blanket.

**He loves you not.**

* * *

Crowley landed hard on a rock, a fact which he noted only in the most distant fashion, and tried to assemble words through his horror.

He’d been fooling himself, but the sound of his own voice had broken the illusion. It _wasn’t_ just that the sunlight made the natural shadows darker by contrast; they were everywhere, winding over Ezra’s skin, filling his eyes. And Crowley had been just sitting there, letting himself pull Ezra down with him. _Please, please let it not be too late, let me have realised in time_ , he thought frantically. He didn’t know who or what he might be praying to.

“We’ll handle this,” said Ezra. Crowley had never heard his voice so cold. He’d stood up, and he loomed a few steps away.

“Handle,” Crowley repeated blankly.

“We understand. A pet is only amusing as long as he knows his place and keeps to it. We understand you very well.” Ezra’s voice had gone strange, weird harmonics twisting around it like vines through a fence.

“A—what? Priest, that’s not—” he sputtered, trying to make sense of it.

“ _That’s not_ ,” Ezra spat at him. The shadows were extending into the air around him, reaching like live things. “We know what he means when he says he loves you. We’re not sure you mean the same.”

Crowley wanted to be angry, but he was too busy feeling as if he’d been stabbed somewhere vital. You never remembered how much it hurt, until the next time. “Of course I do! Of course I mean it, how can you think I don’t?” Somewhere far in the back of his mind, alongside the throbbing of the bruise that was no doubt developing where he’d hit the rock, it occurred to him that he probably shouldn’t be attempting to have this conversation while flat on his back. Against that was the fact that he wasn’t certain he could stand up.

The shadows grew steadily thicker, darker. As his feet left the ground Ezra giggled, as if Crowley had just said something amusing across a chessboard, and he had to pant through the pain of it.

“You can’t even stand our touch. Tell us the truth before we end this. Let us hear it from your lips, that we’re a toy, a pet. Tell us the _truth_.”

“I’m _hurting_ you,” Crowley cried, because that was the only important thing. “Priest, Ezra, please, I don’t want to hurt you! You’re losing your light!”

“Your lies don’t amuse us any longer. You _were_ his light. If we’re losing you it’s because you’re running from us, from your disobedient pet. Admit it. _Tell us the truth._ ” Darkness cracked out like a whip, lashing at him.

You can’t parry magic with a weapon; armour doesn’t block it. Crowley was too bloody stunned to even try to dodge. The slash of the shadow through him cut like cold steel and left burning in its wake, and he gritted his teeth on the sound that rose in his throat.

But it was only pain, and he knew how to deal with pain; they all learnt that lesson because it was learn or die for good. Crowley sat up and started trying to get his feet under him. “It _is_ the truth,” he insisted. “It is, I love you, Ezra, I swear it.” It was quite clear that he wasn’t dealing with just Ezra at the moment, but Ezra was the one he could reach.

He hoped.

“Let’s say we believe you, _Illidari_. Does it matter? We love many things. We love our mounts, we love our books. Your love and our love cannot compare. You will be his _last_ , and for you we’re a summer passion, a passing fancy. If you won’t speak the truth, we think you shouldn’t speak at all.”

Crowley straightened. He made no guarantees about how long he was going to stay up, but at least for the moment he was standing. “You’re not a pet, this isn’t some dalliance, some _affair_ ,” and he started fairly calm but his voice climbed as he spoke; he’d gotten used to bleeding out and it looked like he could be angry after all. “How _dare_ you, how dare you doubt me, you are no _pet_!”

“What else could we possibly be? What would you like us to believe he can offer you? For the last time we ask you. Tell us the truth, and face the consequences.”

“ _You’re my husband_ ,” Crowley spat, throwing the words like spears. He laughed, and it sounded like broken glass in his ears. “You’re my husband, priest, my only light, as long as the sun shines. As you wish, I will do.” As suddenly as it had arrived the anger washed out of him again like a tide receding, leaving bare sand and the sea-wrack it had brought with it. “So whatever you’re going to do, do it.”

* * *

_He loves me. I won't let you hurt him._

* * *

Light burst from Ezra, blasting the shadows to shreds that vanished like snow into water, and he fell out of the air.

“Ezra!” Crowley lunged for him, barely caught him before his head could hit the ground. He hoped—prayed—that it was just exhaustion, like in Dazar’alor, a normal consequence of pulling too much from the shadows, but he didn’t know how to tell. At least Ezra was breathing; Crowley had absolutely no idea where the nearest spirit healer might be.

Ezra’s head rolled and he murmured something, a word that might have been _hurt_ , and warm magic flowed out of him, restoring what the shadows had taken. Crowley wanted to bite something. This _blessed_ idiot. “Don’t do that, priest,” he said, hearing his own voice waver and crack. “You don’t have the power to spare.” Not that Ezra was listening, or capable of listening.

Crowley shifted so he could lean Ezra against his chest. Rested his cheek on Ezra’s head. Listened to him breathing.

In a minute, he’d go and see about putting up the tent by himself.

In a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dagger and book:** The weapons wielded by a Shadow priest. Holy priests use staves.
> 
> Everybody please say nice things about the art by esteemed co-author Doublematch! People who can art are magic!


	23. Chapter 23

The tent went up easily. Crowley made their blankets into a bed and gently laid Ezra down on it. He didn’t think he’d be sleeping much himself, but the odds of mounting an effective watch weren’t high, either; just as well he’d spent a bit extra to hire a tent enchanted to ward off animals. It would do nothing about the Thinking Kinds but as far as Crowley knew the nearest settlement was an Alliance outpost a day’s walk south. He didn’t have to worry about bears, and that was as far as his capacity to care went.

The cool magical lamplight revealed no shadows beyond the natural ones, at least. It removed one thing from Crowley’s list of worries and gave him more time to think about exactly how badly he’d mucked this up. In two different directions, simultaneously, which was something of an achievement even with his well-known propensity for getting in his own way.

He hadn’t told Ezra how strong his feelings had gotten, and as a result the shadows had been able to convince him to let them take over.

Meanwhile, he hadn’t told Ezra how strong his feelings had gotten—months ago, when Ezra could have backed out of this and Crowley might still have been able to stand to let him go.

Well, no: he wouldn’t have been able to stand that, not since Boralus. Possibly not since Drustvar. But at least back then Ezra could have _run_. Now, well, Crowley was pretty sure he’d follow Ezra into Stormwind Keep with nothing between him and the sun, if that was what it took.

When Ezra woke up, Crowley would have to make sure he was aware of what had happened, and if not tell him again; he deserved to know what he was dealing with. And if he decided to take his hearthstone back to Boralus, at least out here Crowley would be able to sit and lick his wounds in privacy.

* * *

Ezra woke to a sense of vague discomfort and wondered what had happened to his bed. It wasn’t supposed to be lumpy, nor nearly this hard. Even more disappointing, he appeared to be in it alone. Then he remembered that they’d gone to Northrend, explaining the discomfort if not the lack of company. They’d been sitting in the sun, and then—oh, bother, he’d fallen asleep on Crowley again.

He opened his eyes to a low fabric ceiling illuminated by a soft lamp, and started trying to sit up. The blanket seemed determined to thwart him.

“No, priest, stay down for a minute,” said Crowley from beside him. He put one hand on Ezra’s shoulder, just enough pressure to make his point, and Ezra subsided.

“Crowley,” he said. His voice rasped and it occurred to him that he was thirsty. “What time is it?”

“Middle of the night,” said Crowley. Ezra blinked at him. He sounded frankly terrible. “Alright, sit up a little. Slowly.”

“What in the world?” Ezra asked, but he let Crowley prop him up because he suspected he’d get answers more quickly that way. Crowley handed over a cup, and Ezra sipped from it. Plain water, but it soothed his dry throat.

“You took a lot out of yourself,” said Crowley.

Ezra stopped drinking. “Took a lot out of myself? I thought—we were having a picnic, and I fell asleep on you again.” A moment passed. “Didn’t I?”

“I wouldn’t call it falling asleep,” Crowley replied, with a brittle smile Ezra didn’t at all care for.

“Well, what would you call it then?” said Ezra, in a rather sharp tone, and could have kicked himself when Crowley flinched minutely.

“Your shadows,” said Crowley. “They were, erm...I think they were telling you things.”

Ezra grimaced. It had been too much to hope that Crowley hadn’t noticed. He took another sip before saying, “Well, yes, they’ve been a trifle unruly of late. Since before Dazar’alor, really. They’re not happy being reined in.” Somewhat to his surprise, the shadows didn’t offer any commentary. He should have been nervous, talking about them being out of control, but instead he felt more sure of himself than he had in months.

“ _Not happy_ about covers it,” said Crowley. His smile hadn’t fallen away, but it hadn’t gotten any more real either. “They told you I don’t love you. At least that’s what I gathered.”

“My _dear_ ,” Ezra exclaimed. He set the cup hastily aside and reached for Crowley’s hands. Crowley let him take them. “That’s absurd.”

“You—they, I think. They shouted at me, and then you must have, well, I don’t know how it works but they let go, or you pushed them out. You’ve been asleep since.”

Ezra concentrated for a moment. The shadows were there, he could feel them, though they weren’t as _insistent_ as he’d gotten used to; if he'd had to name it, he'd have said they were pouting. He opened his eyes and found Crowley watching him anxiously. “I’m not sure what happened, but it can’t have been the shadows. They encourage all one’s worst impulses, to anger and cruelty and fear, and they feed on them, and once they have you...they don’t let go.” He reluctantly released one of Crowley’s hands to pick up the cup again, feeling Crowley’s careful attention to every movement. “It’s why they’re dangerous.”

“They’re dangerous because they’re sodding dangerous,” said Crowley, sounding a great deal more like his usual acerbic self.

He drank the rest of the water and said, “I meant why they’re dangerous to the wielder.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley replied. “Not exactly my area, is it? It looked to me like they were in charge. But whatever it was, you shook it off.” Despite his words, that forced smile was still worryingly in place, and as Ezra turned the empty cup in his hands a possible reason for that occurred to him.

“You’re not hurt, are you? You should have said.” It had been a long time since Ezra had had to touch a person in order to heal them, though physical contact did allow greater control. But he’d given up denying that he simply took any excuse at all to touch Crowley. But Crowley deflected his hand.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Ezra briskly. “Something’s wrong.”

“I’m not hurt. But you don’t remember anything we said, so I need to tell you.”

Ezra’s stomach dropped. There wasn’t anything to be done about his face but he managed to keep his voice calm. “All right.”

“This is—look, I need you to not get flustered on me, yeah? There was no way for you to know, I suppose it didn’t come up in any of your books.”

Ezra nodded.

“I know you didn’t mean it the way I took it,” said Crowley, but broke off and shook his head. At least that awful false smile had gone. “No. Alright. Sin’dorei, we don’t always get married like humans do. Some people, oh, make an agreement to live together for a while, or to have kids and raise them. When you might live forever, not everyone wants to promise a whole life. But when people do, when _we_ do, when we find the one, the end of that promise is _as you wish_.” Ezra found he couldn’t move. Crowley said hastily, “I’m not holding you to a promise you didn’t know you were making, priest, you didn’t know and I’m sorry I pretended you did, I—”

The cup hit the blanket with a tiny thump and rolled out of Ezra’s world. He discovered he’d put his hands over his mouth when Crowley groaned, “You said you weren’t going to get flustered.”

“I _said_ no such thing. All this time, oh Crowley.”

Crowley turned his head, though not before Ezra caught the lack-of-expression that settled over his face; he’d taken the words entirely the wrong way. Ezra took him gently by the arm, and Crowley at least didn’t try to pull away. “All this time,” Ezra repeated, “you thought you were alone. Didn’t you?”

Crowley didn’t answer, but he wasn’t attempting to bolt either, which Ezra chose to take as a good sign. “I told you not to make promises you couldn’t keep, and here I’d made one to you.”

“You didn’t know,” said Crowley, barely more than a whisper.

Ezra smiled. “I’m not the only one.”

That at least startled curiosity out of him. “What do you mean?”

“When humans want to marry, they give their intended a gift,” said Ezra. “It’s not like what the Illidari do, though. It’s a specific gift. Made specially, most of the time.” At last Crowley looked back at him, and he took the opportunity to clasp their hands again. “Accepting the gift means accepting the proposal. So you see, I was pretending too. I knew you didn’t mean it to be an engagement ring.” He held on firmly and waited for the meaning to register.

* * *

There was a long silence, followed by a slightly shorter one. Crowley could feel the metal of Ezra’s ring, trapped between their laced fingers, and—that couldn’t, couldn’t possibly, mean what it sounded like it meant.

Could it?

But Ezra just sat there, smiling, and Crowley crept up to the edge of letting himself believe it. “I gave you a ring.”

“Yes, my dear, you did.”

He hesitated over the drop. “You took it.”

“I did.”

Crowley stepped out into nothingness. “So, would you?”

“Yes,” said Ezra. It hadn’t been so long a drop after all. “Would you?”

Crowley bowed forward until his forehead rested on their clasped hands. “We’re both idiots, priest. Of course I would. You couldn’t drag me away with an elekk.” Laughter bubbled up and he didn’t even try to stop it. “But now we have a problem.”

“And what would that be?” Ezra bent in turn and dropped a kiss into Crowley’s hair.

“I need to make sure I’ve never accidentally proposed to Droxi.” Ezra laughed, _giggled_ , and Crowley wanted to kiss the sound from his mouth. He straightened up, and freed one hand to slide it around Ezra’s neck. “My sun. My light. You’re perfect, priest, do you believe me?”

“I believe you believe it,” said Ezra. Crowley took an indignant breath but Ezra went on, “I suppose you wouldn’t know, but—you remember I told you once that people think I’m odd?”

“That happens, you spend your life with your nose in a book,” said Crowley.

Ezra sighed. “How much I read has nothing to do with folk thinking I’m odd,” he said. “I have never loved a woman in a way that would be improper to love a sister. I have never wanted a woman at all.”

“Lucky for me, then,” said Crowley lightly. “Some do, some don’t.”

“Crowley,” said Ezra, in a tone that suggested he thought Crowley was being deliberately obtuse, “I’m trying to tell you that for humans, it’s odd for a man to prefer other men.”

Crowley felt his brows knitting. “Why would that matter?” Humans—well, to be fair, most non-elves—had the strangest preoccupations sometimes.

“For one thing, it’s usually assumed that an important purpose of marriage is to produce children.”

“Priest, you and I weren’t going to be having children anyway, even if one of us had a womb,” said Crowley. “Even if we were both elves, or both human.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “I can’t. It’s one of the things we gave up.” He used the form of the pronoun that excluded the person addressed.

Ezra reached up to smooth an errant strand of hair out of Crowley’s face, and said, “My dear. You sacrificed so much, for the world’s sake.”

“You have got to stop thinking about it like it was _noble_ ,” said Crowley, a bit too sharp. It wasn’t Ezra’s fault he didn’t understand; he really would have done it to save the world. “I’d have paid any price for the power to kill them, it wasn’t...I wanted revenge. Trying to save anything came later.”

“But you did. You _are_ a hero, my dear, no matter how much you like to deny it.” He tugged gently until Crowley leant forward, and kissed his forehead, and Crowley let him. “Whatever you think you did wrong, I forgive you.”

Crowley shook his head. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m unforgivable. It’s in the description.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Ezra chuckled. “Well then, there’s only one solution.”

“What’s that?” Crowley asked warily. He pulled back enough to see Ezra’s face, as if he’d be able to read anything there.

“I’ll just have to kiss you until you change your mind.”

Crowley raised one eyebrow. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you're supposed to threaten people with _bad_ things.”

“It will be a challenge,” said Ezra. “Now do you accept my forgiveness?”

“Don’t make threats if you’re not prepared to carry them out,” Crowley drawled.

“I see. Well then.” Ezra pulled him close again. Just before their lips met, he whispered, “As you wish.”

* * *

To the surprise of precisely no one, Ezra didn’t make much progress on his threat before he fell asleep again. Crowley stayed awake a bit longer, lying on his side to face the door-flap, relishing the feeling of Ezra’s shallow breaths on the back of his neck. The pile of blankets wasn’t very soft, but it was warm; eventually the tension drained out enough that he thought he could sleep. He hid his face in his arm and let himself slip under.

Morning arrived obnoxiously early, as it was wont to do, and chilly, much colder than it had been when they fell asleep. Crowley took only a few moments of consciousness to fire the idea of getting up. Outside was cold air and possibly even frost; here in their blankets was Ezra, still tucked against his back and with one arm draped over him.

Crowley had to wonder at himself. He’d used to be disciplined; it had been important. Yet here he was, not getting out of bed to face the morning. He dug himself a bit more firmly into the blankets and got an inquisitive noise in response, and then Ezra moved his hand up to comb gently through the unruly tangle of Crowley’s hair. He’d gone to sleep with it still plaited, but his hair tie seemed to have absconded to parts unknown.

“Good morning, my love,” said Ezra. He sounded like he was smiling.

It was tricky, squirming around to face Ezra without letting cold air into their lovely warm cocoon, but Crowley persevered. “As good as mornings get,” he said. “I suppose we should think about moving, but I’ve got to confess, I’m not keen.” He shivered, purely for effect, and was rewarded with quiet laughter.

“There’s a room with all the heat you like back in Dalaran,” said Ezra. “We can sit on the sofa and go on with your Common lessons. Or play chess, or read.” He bent forward to press a kiss to Crowley’s jaw. “Or I have a threat to follow through on.”

Crowley smiled, and marveled at how natural it felt. “I've only got till this time tomorrow, priest, it can’t be done.” He extracted his arm from the blankets experimentally, as if the air would be warmer on his elbow than his face, and hissed a little in disgust. “‘S cold. Don’t like it.”

Ezra looked amused, and tolerant, and Crowley loved how easy his face was to read. “You’re like a snake, searching for the warm rock in the sun. You even sound like one. We’re so much further north than the Broken Isles, you can’t expect it to feel like Uldum.”

“Logic,” Crowley scoffed.

Ezra’s hand slid down along the curve of his neck until it met the cord of his necklace, and then followed it down to the coin. “We can laze about a bit longer but then I’ll have to insist. I miss our room.”

 _Our_ room. Crowley wondered if Ezra could feel the pleasant lurch of his heart at the phrase. “I’m not sure it’s worth going through the cold to get to it. Come on, we can just stay here till it warms up a bit.”

Ezra huffed at him. “You’re a silly serpent and if you won’t see reason there’s only one solution.” He pushed until Crowley rolled onto his back, and Crowley’s breath caught as Ezra leant down.

And murmured in his ear, “I’ll go start a fire.” He climbed out of the blankets and plucked the top one from the pile to wrap around his shoulders.

“You’re such a bastard, priest,” said Crowley.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” Ezra replied primly. “Don’t make me wait too long, my dear, we need to eat.”

“A bastard and a _menace_ ,” said Crowley, at a volume that only pretended to be under his breath. “Don’t go too far.” Ezra hummed agreement as he vanished through the door-flap; Crowley set about searching for his hair tie rather than giving him the satisfaction of leaping up to follow him.

* * *

Fuel was plentiful; the pines provided an embarrassment of riches in the form of dropped branches and dry, needle-covered twigs. Ezra stared into the flames, shivering, and not entirely from the cold. He couldn’t tell himself any longer that it was alright to keep secrets, not after what they’d said. What they’d admitted, and very nearly promised. But even without the cold, he couldn’t tell his secret here; he needed the safety of their room, and sooner was better than later.

Crowley emerged from the tent, binding off the end of his plait. It was of course more practical to keep one’s hair out of one’s face, but Crowley was so disarmingly lovely with his hair all tumbled down in disarray. Still, Ezra decided with no little regret, it wouldn’t be sporting to steal all his hair ties and hide them away.

“We’re going to get back without having even seen any goldclover,” said Crowley as he dropped down to sit close at Ezra’s side. They leant into each other; Ezra wondered if Crowley noticed. “Got to get better at cover stories.”

Ezra laughed, and didn’t try to stop himself wiggling a bit with it. “Anyone who’s had an opportunity to hear our cover stories knows exactly what’s really going on, my dear. Though I suppose you’re right, by now you should be swimming in the stuff.”

“It’s the basis for practically everything in alchemy, up here. You’ll rarely lose money betting that the first step of a new recipe will be _make a tincture of goldclover in the usual way_.” Crowley shrugged. “But I haven’t so much as touched an alembic in, oh, must be six months. Now you said you wanted firstmeal?”

Ezra frowned and clutched his blanket-cloak a little closer. He’d thought so, but faced with the prospect of actually eating he wasn’t sure he could manage it. A cup of something warm seemed just the ticket, though. “Let’s have tea and perhaps some fruit, and we can have a proper meal when we’re back and don’t have to cook it.”

“You brought a kettle?”

“I have standards.”

“I’d noticed,” said Crowley. Ezra had enough experience with it by now to know when Crowley was studying him. “Just tea and fruit, priest? You sure you’re alright?”

“Quite. Just anxious to get back.”

Crowley said nothing for a long moment, but whatever he was looking for he must have found it; he shrugged and said, “Right then. You know where you stowed your standards.”

They broke camp while the water boiled and the tea steeped, and Ezra did feel a bit steadier for it. He came within a hair’s breadth of suggesting that they use their hearthstones to return to the city, stopped only by Crowley's poorly-hidden longing to fly the carpet again. The carpet, he’d decided, did not at all agree with him, but it certainly agreed with Crowley. However, he’d learnt not to buy people expensive gifts without checking that they were needed.

The ride back into Crystalsong Forest was fast but uneventful; Ezra managed to hold a fairly normal conversation. As they drew near the end of the flight, Ezra asked, “Your hawkstrider, my dear, how’s he? I haven’t seen him since Arathi.”

Crowley glanced at him and Ezra squelched the urge to tell him to look where they were _going_ for the Light’s sake; it wasn’t as if there were much to run into at their altitude. “She, priest. She’s stabled at—near Silvermoon. The climate in Zandalar doesn’t agree with her.”

“Did you have to have her specially trained?”

Crowley shrugged. “There are enough of us that a few of the breeders will do it.”

“It’s good to know someone has sense enough to fill a demand,” said Ezra. “What about for flying?”

“Don’t have one, it’s expensive enough feeding a hawkstrider. They’re meat-eaters, you know.”

“Oh, yes. Maka’s always grumbling about the bills for her gronnling.” Ezra nodded to himself in satisfaction.

A quarter of an hour later they were back on the ground and ready to leave. Ezra gazed at the shimmering surface of the teleportation crystal, torn. Their expedition hadn’t been the carefree picnic he’d imagined, but it had been lovely to spend time with Crowley somewhere other than their room. On impulse, he said, “I’d like to come and see the shop you hired this from, if you wouldn’t mind.” That would save him having to hunt for it later.

Crowley made a pained face. “Priest,” he began.

“We’ll just walk. No one will care,” said Ezra.

Crowley hesitated for a beat before replying, “After that we’re going the rest of the way separately.”

Ezra suspected he wasn’t hiding his satisfaction at that answer very well, but Crowley didn’t mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Uldum:** An area in the far south of Kalimdor, one of the two major continents. It's an Egypt stand-in, complete with a large central river, and is mostly desert.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Crowley's disordered eating, non-explicit discussion of torture, a drawing at the end that's probably racy enough to be NSFW.

Dalaran wasn’t really very large; even with the lion’s share of the most powerful mages in the world in residence, it still took some doing to keep a whole city suspended in the air. Therefore their route was short, which Ezra was glad of; he had slightly more to carry than he was comfortable with.

He couldn’t recall ever being told that his family had interests in Dalaran, so it was a pleasant surprise when the shop’s sign bore a version of the family’s crest. The tree beside the waterfall bore no fruit, unlike the ones that marked Ezra’s own belongings.

The shop attendant, a young human man, gave Ezra a professional smile as he entered—and it immediately faded when Crowley followed. Crowley seemed unconcerned as he approached the counter, however, so Ezra held his peace.

“What do you want?” the attendant asked shortly. His Orcish had a thick Common accent.

Crowley set down the bundle of the carpet and the tent in its carrying sack, and said, “Returning these. My deposit?” He sounded perfectly neutral, even flat, and Ezra felt himself frowning. That wasn’t like Crowley at _all_.

The clerk picked up one corner of the carpet with the very tips of thumb and forefinger. “We’ll see, once we have checked these for damage. And cleaned them.”

“I’ll wait,” said Crowley, still calm. Ezra did not like the resignation in the set of his shoulders.

“We will have no time until tomorrow at the earliest,” said the young man. He folded his arms and gave Crowley an expectant look.

That, Ezra decided, was _quite_ enough of that. He set down his burdens with a clatter and extracted his money pouch from his bag. Crowley stepped back a bit to give him room to approach the counter, and he set the pouch down with the engraved clasp ostentatiously facing the clerk. “That won’t be necessary. I should like to purchase them,” he said. They undoubtedly cost more than he had with him, but he could manage a down-payment in cash.

The attendant looked down at the pouch and snorted laughter. “You can’t afford them.” He flicked a disdainful fingernail on the clasp. “You can’t even afford a money-bag that’s really from one of our shops. Now take this _Illidari_ out of here. He can check for his deposit tomorrow, if we can get the stench out.”

* * *

Crowley forced himself not to grind his teeth. The woman he’d hired the tent and carpet from the day before had been perfectly pleasant; if she objected to Illidari, she’d hidden it well. He hadn’t been prepared for open hostility.

Alone, he’d have demanded the shop’s owner, and if all else failed simply abandoned his deposit. But he didn’t want to make a scene with Ezra present; he’d been having enough trouble with his shadows that Crowley thought it would be better all round to just get him back to the inn. He studied the clerk for a long, pointed moment and said, "I suppose it'll be easier to wait for someone competent at that. Come on, priest." He began to turn, and was brought up short by Ezra’s hand on his arm.

“Just a moment, my dear,” said Ezra in Thalassian. “There’s a lesson to be taught here.” He turned to the attendant and switched back to Orcish. “Young man, you’ll either name a price or fetch your master to speak with me. If you make me ask again I’m afraid I won’t be so kind about it. Am I quite understood?”

The attendant was taken aback for only a moment before he sneered, “I already said you can’t afford it, and the owner doesn’t have time for rabble. He’s busy with important things.”

Ezra’s face went stony and Crowley tensed. That expression boded nothing good, though at least there were no shadows in evidence. In a voice several degrees cooler and as many notches louder, Ezra said, “I assure you that this is a very important matter indeed. Fetch him at once.”

Behind the counter, the curtain covering a doorway was drawn aside and a burly human man stepped into view. “There’s no need,” he said. “I’m right—Master Ezra?”

“Burton!” Ezra exclaimed, his demeanor changing instantly. “It’s so good to see you, I had no idea you’d moved shop. Marilee and the children are well, I hope?”

Crowley felt a grin stretching over his face. _Master_ Ezra knew this man’s wife by name. Crowley leant into the counter, his arms crossed; behind it the clerk seemed to be making the same calculation and arriving at the same sum. It looked to be much less to his liking than Crowley’s.

“Quite well,” said Burton. “But from the sound of things you needed to speak to me?”

“I’m afraid so,” Ezra replied. “Your man here appears to be labouring under some severe misapprehensions, chief among them that it’s permissible to treat a customer— _any_ customer—with contempt.” Burton turned to look at his underling, who opened and closed his mouth several times without producing an understandable word.

Crowley wasn’t a good person anymore, but he had _never_ been a good enough person that he wouldn’t have felt more than slightly malicious glee at the young man’s discomfiture.

Meanwhile Ezra continued, “He insulted my friend repeatedly, failed to recognise the family crest, and refused _twice_ to name a price for goods when asked for it. I fear he’s utterly failed to retain whatever training you gave him. Quite aside from the personal insult, he’d have driven away a lucrative sale.”

The shop attendant drew breath but Burton said, “Not one word. We will discuss this when Master Ezra and his friend have finished their business here.” The clerk nodded, which showed rather more wisdom than Crowley would have credited him with. “Master Ezra, sir,” said Burton. Crowley took a beat to understand that the title was addressed to _him_. “I can only offer my sincere apologies.”

“Thank you, Burton, but you are not the one who needs to,” said Ezra. Burton and the clerk both looked at Crowley; he just nodded. Ezra clearly had this situation _well_ in hand.

After a moment, Burton said icily, “Well?”

The young man began to stammer out something that, to his credit, did at least include the words ‘very sorry’, but Crowley simply couldn’t help himself. He straightened to his full height and settled his sin’dorei hauteur around his shoulders like a cloak. “Your apologies mean no more to me than your insults did,” he said, making no attempt to hide his amusement. “We fought the Legion. After that, what could the likes of you possibly do?” Which was very much something one of his more melodramatic siblings would say, but Crowley knew a role when it was handed to him on a plate. He let the clerk fall from his attention with a thud that was all but audible and said, “Did you have much more to do here, priest?”

* * *

Ezra insisted on paying full price for the carpet and tent, and arranged to have them brought to the Legerdemain so that neither he nor Crowley would have to carry them, alongside Crowley's deposit and the majority of their bags. Then they departed, separately.

He took a circuitous route to give himself time to let his ire fade. He had seen bad behaviour towards Illidari before, but the attendant’s display had been unusually blatant even for that. Nor did Mhorduna and his other Illidari guildmates take the insults as Crowley did, as if the scorn only confirmed what they already thought. Crowley grudgingly agreed when Ezra told him he was a hero, but Ezra was well aware he was only saying the words, not believing them.

Amisi stopped him in the common room to tell him their lunch tray was ready, and Ezra supposed it would be better to have something more than a handful of grapes in his stomach no matter how little he really felt like eating. As he passed the first landing, Ezra became aware that he could hear laughter drifting down the stairs. He arrived on their floor to discover that their door was open a crack, and on the other side was Crowley, sprawled in a chair, one hand over his face and laughing helplessly. Ezra couldn’t recall ever having seen Crowley so uncontrolled, at least not while sober. Despite the knot in his stomach he had to smile at the spectacle.

As he set the tray on the table and shed his other burdens, Crowley said, “ _Master_ Ezra, is it? You didn’t tell me you owned a shop here. Full of surprises, you.”

“I own it only in the sense that my family’s business is a major underwriter,” said Ezra. He put on a lecturing tone because Crowley would find it funny, and got another burst of laughter for his effort. “We own many shops, and many ships, and on paper I’m in charge.” He sighed. “That being the case, I feel I should apologise for the appalling way you were treated.”

Crowley shrugged, his smile fading. “You can’t blame them too much. People spent ten thousand years thinking that Illidan tried to sell the world to the Legion, and it’d be easy enough for one of us to go wrong. Some did. Plenty of people are afraid of elves to begin with, and then you add the fel? I can’t say I enjoy it, but it’s hard not to understand it.”

Ezra nodded, but he’d started to fidget with the hem of his tunic and of course Crowley could hardly help but see it. He tilted his head to the side. “You alright, priest? You seem off.”

If his smile didn't feel very sincere, at least Crowley didn't mention it. “Let’s have lunch first,” said Ezra.

* * *

“Finally,” said Crowley; Ezra turned a skeptical look on him and he shrugged, unrepentant. “I’m never hungry—well, hardly ever. What’s your excuse?”

“But you eat with me, all the time,” said Ezra, and then his voice went dismayed. “You eat with me because I enjoy it. My dear, if you’d rather not—I’ve heard stories about Illidari feeding on the demons, but I always thought—”

Crowley put a hand over his face and said, “It’s easier to eat than to find demons to kill, priest.” Nor did he particularly _want_ to sustain himself on the fel.

“But you—”

“Do not feel guilty about this,” said Crowley firmly. He reached for the tray and pointedly picked up a slice of—something, he wasn’t actually sure, he thought dwarves grew it. “Now I have an idea.” He started assembling two plates. He’d got a bit tired of the Legerdemain’s offerings, though in fairness they were less limited than they would have been in a city _not_ run by the Kirin Tor.

For a moment he wasn’t sure Ezra was going to accept the topic change, but then he said, “Well, I do love your ideas.”

“The Darkmoon Faire is coming up, for the Equinox,” said Crowley. “It’s neutral territory. There are a lot of people there, but none of them are likely to be paying attention to anything but having a bit of fun. If we’re not too obvious about it...well I can ask for a few days, if you can.”

“I’ve never been,” said Ezra, as Crowley handed him a plate. “Not many books there.”

“There are things in life other than books,” said Crowley. “Droxi loves it, and it’s good for a lark. There are musicians, we might be able to find someone to do a few of the sagas for you.” He gestured around the room with his fork. “Not that I don’t like it here, but it’s a small space.”

“Quite. That’s settled then. I’ll speak to Mhorduna.”

* * *

By the time they’d finished eating, Ezra did feel a bit better, at least physically. He found himself dawdling over the dishes nevertheless, but there was only so much rearranging of plates he could do.

“Alright, now, what’s going on?” Crowley was still draped over his chair like a scarf over a clothes-rack, but to Ezra’s eye it was clear he wasn’t really relaxed.

Ezra swallowed, looking down at the tray. “There’s something I need to tell you. Show you, rather.” He essayed a laugh and immediately wished he hadn’t; it sounded gratingly artificial.

“Right,” said Crowley. “What do you need to show me that’s got you acting like a rabbit that’s spotted a hawk?” He didn’t sound as carelessly curious as he no doubt would have liked, and that finally firmed Ezra’s resolve. He couldn’t let Crowley worry any longer.

He marched past Crowley. “Just a moment, I’ll explain,” he said. His voice had gone tight with apprehension; Crowley began to turn. “No, don’t, it’ll only be a moment. I need you to know.”

Ezra unfastened his belt and let it drop, then pulled his tunic over his head. Normally he would have folded it neatly but he needed to get this done before he lost his nerve. His shirt followed in a crumple of white linen.

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked. He sounded alarmed and Ezra hated having caused it.

He clenched his hands at his sides. His nails, blunt as they were, dug into his palms. He opened his mouth to tell Crowley it was all right to turn around, failed, took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, but that didn’t stop tears welling in them. “You can look now,” he said.

* * *

Mystified, Crowley twisted in his chair, got a good look at Ezra, and froze where he sat. For the first moment all he could see was the lovely expanse of Ezra’s chest, bare from the waistband of his trousers to his neck. Then details seeped in: Ezra was crying, silently, the tears leaving tracks on his cheeks, and his hands were in white-knuckled fists. Odd marks clustered all over the skin Crowley could see. Scars, but they looked intentional, purposeful—and then they resolved into words.

“What,” said Crowley, hardly a breath. He tried not to understand what had been carved into Ezra’s skin, but he was still a fluent reader when he could see the letters at all; the words set up camp in his mind, mocking and degrading. Ezra had started to tremble and Crowley swallowed hard as he stood up. He had to get this _right_. “Hastur and Ligur,” he said. Keeping his voice calm _couldn’t_ be the hardest thing he’d ever done; it just felt that way. “I don’t want to know how they made it stay, do I?” He could think of a few ways, unfortunately, and none of them were accidental. This had been done on purpose, to be a reminder for as long as Ezra lived.

Ezra shook his head, his eyes still tight shut. “You deserve to know. That I’m ruined, that this is where my shadows get their strength. You deserve it, you...I’m so sorry.”

Crowley made it to him in two steps, ready to engulf him in a swift embrace that would keep out all the dark horrors and protect his perfect flesh forever. But he caught himself and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder instead. “Will you let me hold you, priest?”

There was a long, terrifying pause before Ezra nodded. “Right, come here,” said Crowley softly. “Come on, we’re going to sit down, alright?” The sofa was right there, and he frankly wasn’t sure how much longer his knees were going to hold out in the face of this.

* * *

Ezra reached out. He still couldn’t open his eyes; it felt as if he had to choose between that and breathing. Crowley took him by the upper arms and guided him carefully to the sofa. “You’re all right now, just sit here with me,” he murmured. Ezra sat, heedless of his boots on the cushions; Crowley sat beside him and gathered him into his arms. Ezra melted into the embrace, feeling the beat of Crowley’s heart in counterpoint to his own. “You’re still perfect,” said Crowley, into the top of Ezra’s head. “I thought so before and I think so now.”

“I don’t feel perfect,” said Ezra. Crowley’s arms tightened. “I’m so sorry. But you, you deserve to know. You’d have seen me undressed sooner or later anyway. I just—I don’t think I could bear your disgust.”

“Well you’re never going to have to, so that’s sorted,” said Crowley.

Ezra laughed, watery but sincere. “That could be interpreted in the wrong way,” he said, turning his head to bury his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck. “But you meant your disgust, and not being undressed, I believe.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Crowley. He would be appalled, Ezra was certain, to know how much fondness showed in his voice. “ _Yes_ , that was what I meant.” The words settled over Ezra like a blanket, a comforting weight that gave him enough strength to open his eyes. It turned out to be a mistake, because with his eyes open he could see the scars.

He tried to sit up, but Crowley’s arms didn’t loosen. “Wait, no, where exactly do you think you’re going then?”

Ezra said, “I need to put something on, I...I find this view distressing. As I imagine you do.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Crowley. “You don’t need to do anything on my account.”

Ezra wavered; Crowley didn’t budge. On balance his current position was better than mere fabric anyway. A shirt could cover his scars, but with Crowley’s arm warm around his shoulders they just didn’t _matter_. “You’re too good to me,” he said, and wondered what tactic Crowley would use to avoid acknowledging the praise.

“I’ll have to be going quite early. We’re going to—we have an assignment.”

A complete change of subject, then. “I’ll miss you,” said Ezra, rather than trying to push. He traced his fingers up Crowley’s neck and along his jaw, enjoying the subtle shiver the caress evoked.

For a few minutes Ezra entertained himself that way, but it soon became clear that Crowley was not relaxing; was, if anything, getting more and more tense. When he ran his hand up into the hair at the back of Crowley’s neck and got barely a sigh in response, Ezra decided enough was enough. He moved back far enough that they could see each other’s faces and said, “Now it’s my turn to ask. Is something wrong?”

* * *

Crowley took three deep breaths before accepting that if he waited to get less nervous he’d never do this at all. “Look, I’ve got to,” he said, and choked on the rest of the sentence. Instead of fighting for words he slid away and stood up.

“You’ve got to what?” Ezra asked as he straightened.

Crowley shook his head. “You need to know too.” Ezra, thankfully, didn’t inquire further. Crowley’s fingers fumbled over unbuckling his belt, and he dragged his shirt over his head with no thought for the laces and dropped it, and then he just stood there.

The fel marks snaked over his shoulders and down to wrap his ribs; he’d been told that even for people with normal sight they stood out against his skin more than they should, enough that they couldn’t be passed off as mere tattoos.

“My dear,” said Ezra softly. “Come here, please.”

Crowley took a helpless step forward, until he was within Ezra’s reach. “This isn’t all,” he said.

Ezra reached out slowly, though not reluctantly; he was trying not to _spook_ him, and Crowley didn’t know how to process being someone who had to be handled carefully. “I know. I’ve seen my guildmates. Mhorduna would never wear a shirt at all if he didn’t have to for politeness’ sake.” His hand on Crowley’s hip seemed to burn.

“You’ve seen them. You’ve never seen me.”

“Show me, then.”

Crowley turned his back. The marks flanking his spine where his wings emerged when he needed them were slightly raised and angry red, like wounds only just healed and not yet faded into scars; he’d never seen them, of course, but he’d seen his siblings’. “They don’t hurt,” he said. “People always ask if they hurt.”

Ezra’s hand smoothed down his spine from neck to waist and he shivered. “Sit down,” said Ezra. Crowley tried to shift to the side but Ezra didn’t let him; he ended up in Ezra’s lap, which couldn’t be comfortable but he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to move. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“You did it first.” Ezra drew his hand up again. Crowley’s back arched without his volition. “No one, ah, priest, no one has touched me there—I can’t remember the last time.”

“No one? That’s a pity,” said Ezra. Crowley could hear the smile in his voice. He pulled until Crowley was leaning back against his chest, tracing a careful finger along the border of one of the fel marks. “These cannot hurt me,” he murmured into Crowley’s ear. “Nothing you are can hurt me.”

Crowley knew there was an argument to be made about why that wasn’t true, but he couldn’t assemble it. It didn’t seem very important anyway, not with Ezra’s hands running up and down his sides and over his chest, not with Ezra’s own chest pressed bare to his back. He shook with it, and felt as much as heard Ezra’s chuckle. “Sensitive.”

“It’s been a while,” Crowley grumbled. He could feel himself sinking into his body in a way he normally avoided, and with Ezra’s hands firm on his skin it didn’t make him frantic with loathing.

Ezra paused. “Is it too much, love?”

“No,” said Crowley reflexively, and then, “Yes, but don’t stop.” He shook his head. “No, just a moment, I can’t think.” He twisted. Ezra’s eyes were clear; no shadows wound over his face. Crowley took a deep breath. “Alright. Don’t stop.” He relaxed and let his head fall back onto Ezra’s shoulder.

“Are you quite sure? I’m not likely to want to.”

“Ezra. Did you hear what I said?” Crowley asked. “Tell me what I said.”

“You said not to stop, but my dear…” Ezra sighed. “If you do need me to, please just tell me. I’ll stop if you need me to, please don’t run away.”

“You’re not going to make me _run away_ ,” said Crowley indignantly.

Extremely eloquent silence fell.

“I will if I need to,” he conceded. “But right now, don’t stop.”

Ezra flattened his hand in the centre of Crowley’s chest and said, “As you wish, my sun, I will do.”

Crowley made a profoundly embarrassing noise and took a long moment to collect himself. “You’re going to kill me, priest.”

Ezra laughed again. “The Light forbid it.” His fingers resumed their movement. “Not when we can still have so much fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story, the main one, is not going to have porn in it. We are working (very slowly) on something a bit more X-rated, and when it's done we'll post it in its own work and link it here. So watch this space.
> 
> Speaking of which, more Double art!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Ligur being a stalker, and also kinda slut-shamey.

After dark, they ventured out onto the balcony. It was risky, but Crowley’s guard was lower than it had been in a very long time and as long as they stayed sitting they couldn’t be seen from the street. The chairs weren’t much good for lounging in, but what concern was that when they had a bottle of wine?

Dalaran was too bright to see the stars—or at least most of them; most of the way through the wine the Seat of the Pantheon rose above the roofline. Crowley looked up at it and rolled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “Two and a half weeks till the Faire,” he said. “Do you want to go the first day? It’ll be busiest then.”

“As soon as you can,” said Ezra, and his smile slid into a smirk. “My _dear_ boy.”

“You’re a menace,” Crowley told him. “I keep saying it and it keeps being true. Alright, as soon as I can, the first day.”

“I’ll take a few days' leave. Mhorduna won’t mind.” Ezra picked up the bottle and poured out the last of the wine. “Will you take your carpet with you in the morning?”

“Better not,” Crowley replied reluctantly. “No way to explain how I got it, everyone knows I don’t have that kind of money.” He was still working on accepting that anyone did, and that among the anyones was Ezra.

Ezra nodded and sat back in his chair, cradling his wine glass against his chest. “And you’ll take your new bag, won’t you? It’ll be proof, if you need help and my name isn’t enough. Don't worry about keeping it pristine, I know as well as you do how battle goes. If it gets damaged I’ll get you another.”

“Of course I’ll take it. Much better than my old one.” He could explain away that much of an expense.

For a few minutes there was nothing between them but comfortable silence, until Ezra said, “Crowley, I need to ask you a favour.”

“Anything you like, priest,” he replied lazily, distracted by wondering if it was worth the effort to go down to fetch another bottle.

Ezra sighed and said, “Finish your wine and let’s go back to bed.”

Crowley hiked one eyebrow at him. “We can’t go _back_ to bed, we were on the sofa.” Ezra huffed in exasperation; Crowley smirked.

“You’re leaving before sunrise,” said Ezra. “I require as much time as possible holding you.”

“I can’t argue that.” Crowley had little enough wine left; he drained it and stood up. “Leave the bottle, we’ll sort it later.”

Inside, Ezra closed the balcony doors while Crowley went in search of his sleeping shirt. He found it after a few moments and turned, to discover Ezra still standing near the doors, fidgeting with his ring. “That’s not because we left the bottle outside, is it?” Crowley asked.

“Of course not,” said Ezra, with reassuring asperity. “It’s only I’m worried.”

“I noticed,” said Crowley dryly. “About what?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ezra. “That something’s going to happen. To you, or to me, or—I don’t _know_. But I feel like I don’t deserve this, and eventually the universe will notice.”

“Are you joking. You've got to be joking. _You_ don't deserve it?” Crowley spread his arms out. “I literally ate a demon. Let's not have that argument. _Again_.”

Ezra sighed and left his post by the doors. His hands were still clenched on each other but at least the restless movement had stopped. He caught one of Crowley’s hands and threaded their fingers together. “I told you what I’d have to do if you said such things about yourself,” he said, sounding calmer.

“And I told you that it wasn’t an effective threat, so let’s _not_ , yeah? I’ve got to leave in the morning.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Ezra. He went up on his toes to kiss Crowley’s cheek. “You’ll have to wake me when you’re leaving so I can bolt the door.”

“You’re learning,” said Crowley.

It took much less time to prepare for bed when neither of them worried about the other seeing too much skin, and more time to get properly asleep once in it.

* * *

Crowley got up before dawn, in order to get to Dazar’alor on time. He woke Ezra as requested, and as a result lost a handful of minutes to an embrace at the door. Dalaran was still sleeping when he left it, and Dazar’alor just stirring when he arrived. He dropped his bag in his room and went to meet Mirimë.

The next two weeks passed with surprising speed. Crowley spent most of his time in Kul Tiras, skulking around the edges of settlements and dodging gryphon-mounted patrols. The activity didn’t stop him counting the days, but it made getting through them easier.

The Equinox arrived and Crowley set out. Dazar’alor to Orgrimmar, and then the short zeppelin ride to Thunder Bluff; Crowley was sure a portal joined the orc capital to the tauren one but it wasn’t available to the general public. He liked Thunder Bluff, though he suspected he liked it better because he knew a fall was very unlikely to kill him. The towering, bridge-linked mesas upon which the tauren had built their city were supremely defensible and picturesque, but perhaps not hospitable to those with a fear of heights. He took the lift down from the city to ground level—given the option of not using his wings he took it, no matter how reassuring the ability to break falls might be. The portal stood in a small circle of tents draped in bunting Crowley assumed to be the Faire’s signature purple and green.

On the far side, it was dusk. He didn’t know where in the world Darkmoon Isle was, but it was always dusk here. An enterprising gnome was offering woodstriders to get down to the Faire proper; Crowley declined to hire one. The odds were poor that the beast would carry him without either aggression or panic.

From the portal the path wound through woods to the edge of a cliff overlooking the fairgrounds, and down from there in switchbacks. The walk took a while. Crowley amused himself watching the fireworks that rose almost continuously. If the peoples of the world could repurpose battle flares to be a thing of whimsy and beauty, there was some hope for weapons like him.

At the gate he paused to look around. There was no sign of Ezra, and Crowley wished they’d been a little more specific about where at the Faire they planned to meet. Had he just thought he would follow the light of his sun as easily as that? He wandered down the center of the main aisle of booths and canopies, wondering idly if those interesting flowers were blooming this time of year. The island didn’t seem to have seasons any more than it had times of day.

* * *

Between high demand for the Faire period and having asked so late, Mhorduna was not best pleased with Ezra’s request; Ezra spent his fortnight rushing from assignment to assignment to make up for it. He almost always got to places after the excitement was over, as part of the clean-up crew, which suited him quite well. Once, clinging to a gryphon’s back on his way to the far south of the Sound, he could have sworn he glimpsed a familiar shade of red vanishing into the trees, but that had to have been wishful thinking.

The little town of Goldshire, south of Stormwind, became a major way-point while the Faire was in operation. The contrast between the mid-morning light of Elwynn Forest and the dusk of Darkmoon Isle was a bit disconcerting, but Ezra’s eyes adjusted quickly enough. He hadn’t thought to hire a horse in Goldshire, so the gnome with woodstriders was a welcome sight.

Outside the main gate, he relinquished his temporary mount’s reins to the caretaker and pushed back his hood. He’d opted to wear all of his combat gear, down to the dagger and book that hung at his side; the shadows had been unresponsive since Northrend, but no one else needed to know that his major offence was currently unusable. Ezra hoped that having everything with him would help to assuage Crowley’s overprotective instincts a bit—and while the Faire itself was neutral ground, the woods surrounding it were not.

They hadn’t specified where they’d meet; surveying the first-day crowd Ezra thought that might have been a mistake. Nothing for it, then, but to go in and hope.

He hadn’t gotten far down the main ‘street’ before he caught sight of a head that had to be Crowley’s, making its way in his direction. Despite the perpetual dusk, the Faire grounds were well-lit with both magic and fire, and the ruddy light made Crowley’s hair seem almost on fire itself. Ezra stopped where he was, the better to appreciate the effect.

Crowley vanished behind a tauren who was tall even by the standards of her massive people, and when he reemerged Ezra saw the moment Crowley spotted him. His pace quickened, and for once he took blatant advantage of people’s reluctance to touch him to clear his way through the crowd. Ezra did not care for the reluctance, but he had difficulty arguing with the result.

They were in public; Ezra could not fling his arms around Crowley’s neck and Crowley stopped at a perfectly respectable distance. But the smile that spread over Crowley’s face demanded a response in kind.

“Hello, priest.” Ezra blessed the masking wall of sound the crowd lent them and thought it was just as well no one cared enough to eavesdrop; Crowley’s voice could not be mistaken for neutral or even merely friendly. “Enjoying the Faire?”

“I’ve just arrived, and it’s my first visit,” said Ezra, wondering if his own tone pinned his heart to his sleeve quite so obviously. “Perhaps you have some activity to suggest?”

Crowley chuckled. “That depends. How do you feel about going very high and very fast?” He waved over his shoulder.

Ezra eyed the towering wooden framework dubiously; the distance-softened cries that emerged from it straddled the line between delight and terror. “Well. It’s not quite in my line, so to speak.” Disappointment flashed over Crowley’s face. “But I suppose one should be open to new experiences?”

“That’s the spirit,” said Crowley. “Come on, I’ll buy the tickets.”

As they walked Crowley continued, “I haven’t been able to find a skald for you, but the Elite Tauren Chieftains will be performing later, if you’d like to listen.”

Ezra glanced at him. “And what do they play, be-bop?” In his experience names like that tended to go with be-bop. But Crowley stopped short, and when Ezra turned to face him his eyebrows were making a break for his hairline.

“Priest...if you lined up everyone in the world and asked them to describe the Tauren Chieftains, nobody _at all_ would say ‘be-bop’.”

“ _I_ would, so you’re clearly incorrect,” Ezra countered.

They walked on, bickering companionably. Neither of them thought to look closely at any of the shadows they passed.

* * *

In Ezra’s opinion, the only virtue that the ride on the death-trap of a contraption known as a ‘roller-coaster’ had was that it was _short_. He probably should have been warned by the sign that proclaimed the ride the Lightning Bolt.

He all but stumbled out of the tiny car they’d ridden in, and Crowley caught him by the arm. They lurched down off the platform. “Oh, my goodness,” said Ezra.

“Sorry, priest,” Crowley replied.

Ezra stood up straight and patted Crowley’s hand reassuringly. “Sometimes you go too fast for me, Crowley.” Then it occurred to him that they probably shouldn’t be touching quite so obviously and he reluctantly stepped back.

“What about something to eat, then?” Crowley asked.

Ezra nodded. “Would you mind fetching it? I can sit over there.” He nodded in the direction of a seating area away from the crush of the crowd, tables and benches alike made of split logs. “I think we oughtn’t to wait in line together.”

“Suppose not. It’ll probably be a bit.”

Ezra opened his bag, took out his book, and held it up for scrutiny. “I shall entertain myself.”

Crowley made an obvious, and unsuccessful, attempt to suppress laughter and said, “Of _course_ you brought a book to a festival.”

“You should know by now I never go anywhere without one,” said Ezra. “I’ll just sit and read.”

“Sure, sure. Even you can’t get into too much trouble reading,” said Crowley solemnly.

“Well, I _never_ ,” said Ezra in mock offense.

Crowley grinned at him. “You should. It’s fun.”

“Oh, off with you.” Ezra flapped his hands in dismissal; laughing, Crowley strode away. Ezra unashamedly watched his retreating form.

The cluster of tables had walls of a sort, fabric panels in bright colours lashed to posts. It was nearly deserted, except for a group of three orcs having a vociferous debate about how General So-and-so acted in the Battle of Such-and-such and whether her strategy had been a good one; they gave Ezra assessing looks, decided he wasn’t a threat, and dismissed him. Ezra chose a seat that wouldn’t be immediately visible to passers-by so that they could eat in relative privacy once Crowley returned, though he supposed they’d have to wait till the orcs had left to really talk.

He set his book down on the table before him. Mindful of his promise to stay more alert, he looked up every few sentences, but nothing immediately threatening presented itself. Eventually the orcs finished their food and stood, still enmeshed in their discussion. As they vanished back out into the bustle, Ezra sat up straighter, wondering where Crowley had got to. He heard nothing over the noise of the crowd; he saw nothing that might have warned him.

A hand clapped down over his mouth. A blade settled delicately against his throat. “Try to scream,” said Ligur into his ear, “and I’ll start by cutting out your tongue.”

* * *

Crowley approached the seating area bearing a pair of mugs he was going to have to return and an assortment of brown paper dishes that he wasn’t, plus a precariously balanced pair of little cakes pressed upon him by Aimee, the quel’dorei baker from Dalaran. She’d brought her wares to the Faire, and had recognised him as he passed.

He wasn’t immediately alarmed when he didn’t see Ezra; there were of course reasons someone might wander off for a few minutes. But then he spotted the book.

It lay on the ground, pages crumpled haphazardly beneath half-open covers, and Crowley lost all his breath as if he’d been punched. “Ezra,” he said, and turned in a rapid circle, scanning to the limits of his perception. “Oh priest, where the hell are you?”

Out past the barrier that marked the edge of neutral ground, he caught a flicker of movement. It could have just been an animal—wolves and their prey lived in the island’s woods—but it was the best he had. Crowley dropped everything he was holding with no attention to where it landed and ran.

He hadn’t brought any proper weaponry; he hadn’t thought he’d need it, and he’d been trying not to listen to his paranoia quite so much. So all he had was a knife, long enough to be useful but not meant for fighting, and his inherent powers. He wasn’t even wearing _armour_ , and he cursed himself for it as he ran.

The abundance of tree trunks confused his vision with overlapping silhouettes but Crowley concentrated on the movement. Once he was close enough to see the outlines of figures he slowed, to be quieter, and drew his knife. Only two figures, Ligur and Ezra, the one hauling the other like a half-sentient training dummy; there was at least no sign of Hastur.

Ligur and Ezra were almost of a height, but Ezra was huddled, drawn in as if he could make himself small enough to disappear. Crowley was all but certain Ligur had a knife to Ezra’s throat, and if Ezra hadn’t called the shadows by now he wasn’t likely to. Handling magic took at least a modicum of calm, which Ezra quite obviously didn’t have.

They were far enough from the Faire’s grounds that a scream would be lost in the background noise when Ligur stopped. He shoved Ezra into a broad tree trunk; Ezra let out a muffled whine that sounded like he’d been gagged.

“I wish I’d known,” said Ligur silkily, as Crowley tried to figure angles, tried to work out how to get him the hell away from Ezra. “Do you get the hots for everyone who kills you? I hope so, that’ll make this even more fun.” Ezra made another noise, wild with panic.

If Crowley tried to stun Ligur, he’d get Ezra too, and who knew what might happen if they both collapsed? What he needed to do was get Ligur _away_.

He breathed in deep, and charged.

* * *

Ezra couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe_ , he was barely even staying upright on his own recognisance; in the back of his mind something screamed at him to fight but he couldn’t force himself to act. “Such a good little toy,” Ligur crooned, a parody of tenderness. “So s—”

Ezra never found out so _what_ , because that was when Crowley hit Ligur from the side, bodily, using his weight and momentum to shove the other man away. Ligur’s knife nicked Ezra’s throat as it was knocked aside, and the pinprick of pain brought the world back into focus as Crowley and Ligur staggered to a halt arm’s length away.

“Crawly,” said Ligur. He sounded delighted and a new fear clutched Ezra’s heart even as he began to fumble at the knot holding the rough gag in place. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Crowley bulled into Ligur again and snarled, “You’re going to regret this.”

“Not as much as you are,” said Ligur, as he was knocked back, and back. “You’re dead meat once I tell Command what you’ve been up to.” _Oh no, oh please_ , Ezra thought, and reached desperately for the shadows, but they slipped out of his grasp.

Crowley didn’t answer, gave Ligur one last shove, and then—

Ezra had seen Crowley’s demon-form before, and at first he thought that was all that was happening. Like watching any shapeshifting, Ezra couldn’t pinpoint the moment of the change, but suddenly Crowley was taller, broader, his skin gone sickly grey; huge horns curled around his head like a ram’s and leathery, ragged wings spread wide from his back.

And even from this distance, Ezra could feel the taint of the fel in the green fire that burst from his eyes. The blast caught Ligur square in the chest and he screamed as he crumpled. Crowley didn’t stop. The power poured from him in a torrent, for longer than Ezra had known it could be sustained, and then it was over.

Crowley, thin and pale and swaying where he stood, turned. “Are you hurt?” he panted.

Ezra all but threw himself across the distance between them and gasped, “No, I’m all right, but you—”

“So touching,” said Ligur. His voice was weak, and full of malice. “Enjoy it while you can. And when you’re dying, remember there’s nothing left to stand between me and my toy.”

The plan sprang fully formed into Ezra’s mind. _I know what to do, but I need your help to do it,_ he thought.

 **That’s crazy** , said the shadows in admiration. **We _like_ it**.

Crowley’s face set into the grim blankness that Ezra had come to associate with doing something he loathed, and he took a step in Ligur’s direction, shifting his grip on his knife.

“No,” said Ezra, and took him by the arm. He let the shadows wind out to Ligur, to keep him incapacitated but not quite dead for a few moments longer. “Wait until he’s gone, my dear, there’s no need.” He moved to face Crowley fully and laid his hand gently on his cheek. “Now listen to me, please, just in case.” With his other hand he drew his dagger, keeping the movement carefully hidden. He could feel the shadows’ anticipation. “This isn’t your fault, my sun. I’ve never been happier in my life than I’ve been since I met you. I love you, and I’m sorry.” He stepped back as much as he could bear to, just enough to get the distance he needed.

The pain as the dagger punched up under his sternum was stunning, paralysing; he had to let the shadows take charge and heard them use his voice to say, “ _We_ are sorry.”

He watched Crowley’s expression shift from puzzlement to horrified realisation as he wavered to his knees. With the last of his strength Ezra pulled the dagger back out, so that he’d bleed faster. He lost his hold on Ligur’s life and started to fall forwards; Crowley caught him. “No, no,” Crowley moaned. “What are you doing, Ezra, no!”

Ezra smiled. “I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, and the world fell away.

* * *

_**You’re here. Ready to go?** _

_Ezra looked around and his heart sank—or something did, since he lacked a heart. He stood alone with the spirit healer, no sign of Ligur. Had he been too late after all? **No, I’m here to bargain**._

_He must have imagined the tiny pause before the spirit healer replied, **You have no need to bargain. You may return or go on, as you choose.**_

_Even dead Ezra couldn’t stop his hands from wringing. **I don’t need to bargain for myself. There’s someone else—I can’t allow him to go back. I want to make a bargain for that.**_

_Ezra did not see Ligur arrive any more than he’d seen Crowley shift, but suddenly he was there. **Still thinking of me, pet? Is your Illidari freak not doing it for you any longer?** Ligur crossed his arms and looked Ezra up and down in a speculative, possessive way that would have made his skin crawl if he’d had any at that moment. **Don’t worry, we’ll have lots of fun after he dies screaming.**_

**_Him_** , _Ezra said. His voice didn’t shake. **I cannot allow him to go back. Anything you want, as long as he stays here.**_

_Ligur huffed laughter. **Nice try,** he said. **Now get out of my way.**_

_**Please. Don’t let him go back.** _

_The spirit healer wavered, in a way Ezra had never seen before, fading out of view and back. Ligur’s brow furrowed. **What’s happening?** he asked, in a voice that did not fully conceal unease. Ezra ignored him. If he’d been breathing, he’d have held his breath._

_The spirit healer firmed. **It is decided**_ , _it said. **You may have what you ask.**_

_**What? No!** Ligur exclaimed. The spirit healer gestured and he froze in place._

_**The terms are these: he will travel on, but if he does, the next time we see you will be the last. Do you accept the terms?** _

_Ezra couldn’t help but smile. It was more than he’d dared to hope, that he could go back one more time, see Crowley again and ask for his forgiveness. **I accept.**_

_**Done,** the spirit healer said, and Ezra felt the bargain settle into him like scrimshaw on his bones._

_**Thank you,** he said. **Send me back.**_

* * *

If he hadn’t just blasted Ligur, he might have been fast enough, but he had and he wasn’t. Crowley broke out of his paralytic shock just in time for Ezra to pull the knife from his wound. Crowley crashed to his knees to catch him, as the dagger fell from his limp hand. “No, no,” Crowley moaned. “What are you doing, Ezra, no!”

Ezra smiled up at him. Crowley’s breath caught. “I’ll see you soon,” Ezra whispered. His chest fell, and did not rise again.

Behind him Ligur was using his own last breaths to laugh, but Crowley didn’t _care_. Later he would notice that the tie had fallen out of his hair, and he wouldn’t care about that either. It was obvious that he was going to have to make a habit of finding the nearest spirit healer whenever he went somewhere new; that was something he could focus on to avoid thinking about the horrible stillness of the body in his arms.

His blindfold slid down his cheek in a way he was certain would be comical to an onlooker; Crowley grabbed it, snapped the remaining threads with a yank, and let it fall. He’d shredded it with the blast.

Crowley supposed he should get up and make sure of Ligur’s body, but on the other hand if he just left it here the animals of the island would likely deal with it; Ligur would be in no shape to defend himself from wolves when he revived.

He lost track of time, kneeling amid the fallen leaves with Ezra’s body draped across his lap, but it couldn’t have been long before a faint glow began to collect out of the air like mist over water on a cool night. It swirled and roiled for a few moments, and settled over Ezra’s chest, growing thicker over the wound; the hole sealed up, leaving a scar that looked years old—it shouldn’t have left a scar at all, not when discorporation had followed so closely upon the infliction of the injury, but that was another thing Crowley didn’t give a damn about. He clenched his teeth.

Ezra’s pulse beat once, stuttered, and fell into rhythm under Crowley’s fingers; he began to breathe again with a gulp of air that sounded painful. His eyes didn’t open, but that would come.

In the end, Crowley left Ligur’s corpse where it lay.

Fortunately, the Faire workers believed him when he told them he’d found Ezra in the woods. One of them even gave him a scarf to cover his eyes, though he thought that was more out of not wanting to look at them than anything else. Crowley answered as few questions as he could, disclaimed all knowledge of what had happened, and fled as soon as doing so wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion. He hated to leave Ezra but he couldn’t afford to be seen to care, for either of their sakes; having brought him to safety was bad enough.

He collected Ezra’s bag and book from the seating area where they still semi-miraculously sat, and headed straight for the _Fel Hammer._ He needed to find Mhorduna.

* * *

Hastur (He never thought of himself as ‘Edward’ anymore; Edward had died in the Scourge.) roamed the Faire, growing ever more irritated. Ligur had promised him some fun, and more than that to finally tell him the secret he’d been keeping, but the orc was nowhere to be found and Hastur had never been a patient man. He’d arrived on Darkmoon Isle already eager for the game and more than an hour later his anticipation had begun to sour.

Finally he tired of aimless wandering and began a systematic search. Halfway down the length of the main thoroughfare, a relatively secluded seating area yielded gold. Hastur had not, of course, dealt much with the Fallwaters since the fall of Lordaeron and his own transition to undeath, but he’d known their symbol in his first life. Only on their toy’s possessions, however, had the tree borne fruit, as on the clasp of the bag leaning against the split-log bench. The rabbity little priest had been here—and from the looks of the tracks, had not left willingly.

He abandoned the bag and the mess of dropped food near it and skirted the barrier separating the Faire’s grounds from the woods. The tracks were neither difficult to follow nor perfectly fresh, and Hastur growled in annoyance. Nabbing a target when a chance presented itself was one thing, but Ligur had best not have gotten too far without him.

He expected to hear their toy from quite a distance, and therefore nearly stepped on Ligur’s corpse. It looked as if an explosion had gone off at close range; impossible to tell whether the burning or the crushing had dealt the fatal blow. A fireball, perhaps, or some shaman’s earth elemental heated to magma, or...Hastur bent for a better look.

The strip of black cloth had torn, but it was still knotted as if to wrap someone’s head. _Illidari_ , Hastur thought. _How did he let some freak get the drop on him?_ Near the blindfold’s remains lay a short length of ribbon, decorated with metal balls at the ends. He pocketed them both before heaving Ligur’s corpse over his shoulder. There had to be a spirit healer on the island, and he always enjoyed mocking Ligur for having gotten himself killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Seat of the Pantheon:** Exactly what it says on the tin; the godlike Titans live there, and since the defeat of the Legion it has been a very bright star in Azeroth's sky.
> 
>  **Woodstriders:** Rideable terror birds. Roughly ostrich-sized, with the can-opener beak. Actually upon more careful consideration I'm fairly sure that anything with a name ending in -strider is a rideable terror bird; the big distinctions are colour and whether the head is parrot-like or hawk-like.
> 
>  **The Lightning Bolt and the Elite Tauren Chieftains:** The Faire really does have a roller coaster (unnamed in canon) and performances by the ETC and another band called Blight Boar. We did not make these things up.


	26. Chapter 26

It took a day and a half for Mhorduna to show up, and when he did he looked ready to kill.

Crowley had deliberately placed himself to be as conspicuous as possible; he did not need to provoke more anger by being difficult to find, and he trusted none of his sin’dorei siblings would turn him in without giving him a chance to run for it. That meant that everyone in the great central chamber of the _Fel Hammer_ got to watch as Mhorduna stalked towards him like a tempest on the Great Sea. Crowley was in armour and Mhorduna wore civilian clothes, but Crowley still didn’t like his own chances if it came to blows.

Nobody got close enough to eavesdrop, at least as long as he and Mhorduna kept their voices at relatively conversational volume. “What. The _hell_. Happened?” Mhorduna demanded, in Common. Ezra must have mentioned the language lessons.

Crowley had spent a lot of time working out the Common words he needed but faced with actually using them they fled. He pressed ahead regardless. “At the Faire, I go— _went_ for food. He waits, Ligur takes him. I...choose? No, chase. Find them in the woods. Use my eyes.” He paused to make sure Mhorduna understood what that meant and got a tight nod. His throat closed on the next part, the important part. “When Ligur is dying, Ezra—” He had to pause and bite his lip. “He killed himself. I know not why. Then he came back. ” He had to stop for a deep breath. “Please. Is he awaked?”

Mhorduna’s eyes burnt brighter behind his blindfold, which wasn’t in any way reassuring, but all he said was, “Not yet.” He nodded at the bag. “That’s his?”

Crowley shrugged the strap off his shoulder and held it out. “Yes. Please tell him,” but what was there to say? “Tell him I wait all time I can.”

In the pause that followed, Crowley wondered if Mhorduna’s scowl had actually lightened, or if that was wishful thinking on his part. “I don’t like this,” said Mhorduna at last. He took the bag, and Ezra’s staff when Crowley offered it. “It’s too dangerous. For both of you.”

Crowley flinched, and it wasn’t as if Mhorduna could have failed to see it. “No, please, I…” He couldn’t find the words.

“Crowley, just say it.” Despite the scowl his tone was calm and understanding; it sorted oddly with the harsh edges of Eredun. But it was the only language they fully shared as yet, and much though Crowley loathed it Mhorduna was right; he needed to be understood.

“I know it’s dangerous, but I _can’t_.” He knew his voice gave him away, sounded fragile and frightened, though he’d laughed his way through the campaign on Argus.

Of course, on Argus he hadn’t had anything to lose.

“Don’t take him away from me, brother.”

There was another terrifying pause.

“I’d like to see me try,” said Mhorduna, sounding resigned. “I’ve never yet talked him out of anything.”

Crowley couldn’t manage a laugh or even a smile. “If you work out how, let me know.”

Mhorduna sighed. “I will. I’ll tell him you’re waiting.”

“Thank you,” said Crowley, this time in Thalassian; the phrase was short and formulaic enough that he felt confident Mhorduna would understand.

“Mind how you go, brother,” said Mhorduna, and turned away.

When he’d gone Crowley unclenched the hand that held his Dalaran hearthstone. He didn’t, technically, need to use it; a permanent portal still linked the _Fel Hammer_ to the mages’ city. But with a hearthstone his destination could be anywhere in the world and there was no need to give his eventual pursuers a hint of where he was going.

Dalaran wouldn’t stay safe for long, but he could wait there. For Ezra, or for whomever Sylvanas dispatched to collect him, whichever came first.

* * *

When Ezra reluctantly opened his eyes, he discovered the glowering face of an irate Illidari—but not the one he’d been hoping for. Mhorduna presented him with a cup. “Boralus, a little over two days, drink something and explain.”

Ezra struggled to prop himself on his elbow; still scowling, Mhorduna helped him up enough that he wouldn’t pour the cup’s contents all over his front. “Is he alright?” Ezra rasped.

“Drink. Explain.”

Ezra sipped. The sweetness of the fruit juice made him aware that he was ravenously hungry, but he had more important worries. “Is he alright?” he repeated. Two could play at _that_ game.

Mhorduna glared at him. Ezra pressed his lips together. After a few moments of silent debate Mhorduna said, “Alive, last I saw him. Now _explain_.”

“It was Ligur. He took me,” said Ezra. He sipped from the cup again to hide the grimace. A target: he was always a target. “Crowley tracked us and…” He waved a hand at his eyes. Mhorduna nodded. “But Ligur threatened him, and I couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t be allowed to come back.” Mhorduna’s eyebrows rose. “I succeeded.”

Mhorduna opened his mouth, and Ezra applied himself to the cup. He did not intend to explain exactly what he’d done; Crowley deserved to know first. “This is madness, Ezra,” said Mhorduna at last. “Every time you see him you’re risking both your lives. You clearly can’t be trusted to look after yourself and he’s far too willing to indulge you.” He sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest—which, true to form, wasn’t covered in a shirt. “Give me one good reason to allow you out without a minder.”

“It’ll have to be at least two minders,” said Ezra flatly. “I _am_ still a priest.” He did not want to mind-control any of his guildmates, but he wanted to be locked up ‘for his own good’ far less. He set the cup down, the better to turn his ring on his finger.

“Ezra,” Mhorduna began.

“You cannot keep me from him, Mhorduna, and I don’t suggest you try. I love him.” It took all the effort he could muster to keep his voice even.

Mhorduna shook his head. “I’ll go get Maka so we can help you to your rooms,” he said. Ezra’s heart flipped over in his chest. “The ones in Dalaran. But I expect to find you where I left you, are we clear?”

Ezra nodded hurriedly.

* * *

The amount of practise he’d been getting the last little while hadn’t made Crowley any better at waiting. Every sound made him reach for his glaives. He could not pass the time with armour maintenance, since he was wearing it; his bag sat ready near the balcony doors along with the carpet and tent. He wouldn’t have let himself sleep even if there’d been any chance he could manage it. Whatever happened, he needed to be awake for it.

He tried to arrange some of Ezra’s possessions as well, but the task was far from straightforward. It was easy enough to set aside the books that had been his own gifts to Ezra, and there were a few others he knew Ezra was fond of, but that did nothing for the papers, pens, vials of ink, clothing, and assorted sundries.

Crowley assumed there was a reason Ezra had brought an atlas to Dalaran, though he couldn’t imagine what it might be.

Crowley kept opening the book, trying to work out where best to run to. Nowhere on the Eastern Continent was likely to be safe, nor Kalimdor. Kul Tiras wouldn’t be safe for him; Zandalar wouldn’t be safe for Ezra. Pandaria, though unaligned, was not a good hiding place for two people who had neither fur nor tails. Northrend might be a possibility, if they could stand the cold; the Broken Isles might, if Crowley could stand the memories.

Outland...Crowley had no particular desire to go to another planet, much less one that was literally falling apart, but it couldn’t be denied there were some truly out-of-the-way places there.

A noise from the landing yanked him out of his musings and he dropped the atlas in favour of his glaives. Once he had them in hand, he stared through the closed door. Kaldorei, from the height and the angle of their ears, and Ezra propped between them, and Crowley hastened to the door to unbolt it.

No one spoke until they were inside and the door shut behind them. Crowley bolted it while the kaldorei essentially carried Ezra towards the bed—he couldn’t have been awake for long, if he was still this badly off. Makavi said angrily, “You had better be glad you kept that maniac’s hands off him.” Her Darnassian accent, like Mhorduna’s, made her Common easier to understand, though he had no idea what a ‘maniac’ might be. From context, something undesirable. “You’re bad news and I’ve known it since the first time I saw you.”

Ezra mumbled something that sounded like a relative of a protest as she and Mhorduna sat him on the bed; Makavi ignored it, turning to glare at Crowley with her unnaturally dark eyes. “I don’t have to like you. I do have to thank you.”

Crowley shrugged. “I did not it for thanks.”

Meanwhile Mhorduna pulled Ezra’s shoes off and helped him to lie down. “We know why you did it,” he said. Of course they did; they were elves. “How long can you stay?”

“How long until Ligur talks?” Crowley asked. “I know not.” It didn’t help at all that Sylvanas knew his face from the debacle with Saurfang.

Mhorduna straightened. “From what Ezra said, I don’t think you have to worry.”

“What?”

“He said Ligur’s not coming back.”

A moment passed. “ _How_?” Crowley demanded.

“He wouldn’t tell us how he knows,” said Makavi, exasperated. “You’ll have to ask him.”

Crowley stuffed that flat and packed it away like a bedroll for later consideration; Ezra wasn’t going to be answering any questions for several hours at least. “If Rangers come not...three days, four maybe? Send someone in four.”

Makavi perched on the edge of the bed and passed her hands over Ezra, murmuring. Crowley could faintly feel the soothing aura of her magic. Meanwhile Mhorduna came over to him. “I know it’s no good to tell you not to worry,” said Mhorduna.

“It is not,” Crowley replied. “If Ligur comes back—I will kill him for this. All the times he needs.”

Mhorduna took him by the shoulder. “And have Ezra go shadow-mad? It’s only by the blessing of Elune that he hasn’t, and you know that.” Crowley shook his head. “Well. I’ll see you in four days, brother, and don’t make me chase you down.”

“That I will not.”

Mhorduna nodded and said, “Good. Come on, Maka, let’s get back.”

Once they were gone Crowley propped himself against the door. More _waiting_ , and the suggestion that high alert wasn’t necessary had already eroded his ability to maintain it. He ran his hands back through his hair, sighed, and unbuckled his cuirass enough to slither out of it. It and the rest of his armour went to sit near his bag—but his glaives he leant against the wall near the bed. Mhorduna and Makavi had both seemed confident of Ezra’s claim, but Crowley’s trust could only go so far.

He just needed to sit down for a few moments, and he could keep watch as well from right next to Ezra as wandering around the room. He’d store up the memory of warmth, in case he had to run after all.

In the middle of bargaining with himself for how long he was allowed to stay on the bed, sleep fell upon him like a rock thrown by an ogre.

* * *

Crowley woke to darkness and a hand playing with his hair. Ezra’s hand, he knew the scent, and that meant everything had to be alright.

Then images prised open the fog of his memory like smiths' bars: the Faire, Ezra, _Ligur_ , and they weren’t safe. Crowley sat up, ignoring the questioning noise from Ezra, and snapped the lamp alight. It didn’t matter so much for him, but he doubted Ezra wanted to have a conversation in the dark.

Blinking in the unexpected light, Ezra said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He started trying to get upright as well, and Crowley put a hand on his shoulder. “None of that,” he said. “You’re in no shape.” It was worryingly easy to keep Ezra down; in the normal run of things he was much stronger than he looked. Crowley carefully ignored the memory that wanted to surface, of how exactly he’d discovered that.

Ezra squirmed; Crowley pressed a little harder. “Do you need to be sitting up to talk?” Ezra shook his head. “Then stay. Down.”

“I’m thirsty,” said Ezra, sounding mulish. “And I need to, ah, you know.” After a moment he added, “Though I think I’ll have to beg your assistance.”

“Noticed that, did you?” Crowley asked dryly, but fair enough. “Up you get, and then we’re going to talk.”

They had a brief wrangle over leaving the room rather than using the provided chamber pot; Ezra won that one, but Crowley absolutely refused to go out onto the landing without at least one glaive—it was bad enough he’d fallen asleep, and he was still _far_ from confident that he wouldn’t have to deal with kidnappers or assassins at any moment.

It didn’t take very long, but by the time they got back Ezra was winded; he wasn’t going to be running anywhere in the near future, which meant Crowley wasn’t either. He got Ezra propped on enough pillows to drink, handed him a cup of water, and sat cross-legged on the bed where he could help if it looked like there might be any spilling. “Alright,” he said as Ezra sipped cautiously. “Why?” He didn’t feel any need to specify.

“Ligur,” said Ezra. “I had to make sure he wouldn’t come back, but to do that I had to be there before him.”

“To do what exactly?”

“I made a pact with the spirit healers.”

Crowley felt himself rock back, as much physically as mentally. “You can’t make _pacts_ with the spirit healers, priest, it’s not possible.”

Ezra huffed in annoyance, or offence, and said, “Oh? And when did you become a priest, to be so sure?”

“I don’t have to be a priest to know that, everyone knows that.” Crowley hadn’t previously realised it was possible to _drink_ defiantly, but Ezra managed. And blast it, this wasn’t the time to get into an argument. “How do you feel about Draenor?”

“I’ve never been,” Ezra replied. “But I don’t think this is the best time to be planning a holiday.”

“I’m not talking about a holiday,” said Crowley grimly. “I just can’t think of anywhere better to hide.” Until the war was over, in the best case, or possibly forever; that was irrelevant for the moment.

“Crowley, I promised Mhorduna I would stay _here_ ,” said Ezra, in his I’m-going-to-follow-the-rules-damnit voice. “Besides, surely if someone were coming for you they’d have done it by now, it’s been days.”

“I’m not that important, and he might not have woken up quickly,” Crowley argued. “Look, I know you’re not going to be able to do much, but you don’t have to. Mhorduna will understand, we can leave him a message with the tavern staff. All you have to do is get yourself to the carpet, and I’ll handle it. It doesn’t have to be Draenor. Anywhere. _Anywhere_ you want to go, but we should go _soon_. I don’t want to have to fight my way out of Dalaran.”

“I told you, it won’t be necessary,” Ezra insisted, but his shoulders slumped and he began to turn the cup in his hands restlessly. “You’re welcome.”

Crowley paused, and doubt crept in. “You were serious,” he said. “The spirit healers, you were _serious._ ” Ezra looked away, and doubt became dread. Crowley took Ezra by the shoulders and felt him trembling. “You made a deal—priest, _what did you bargain with_?”

“I gave them what they asked, and I got what I wanted in exchange.”

Dread bloomed into terror. “You don’t remember?”

Ezra shook his head, still evading Crowley’s gaze, and whispered, “I gave it away.”

Crowley’s hands dropped of their own accord. “You _what_?”

“I gave it away!” Ezra cried. “I had to, Crowley, you heard what he said. He was going to turn you in! He was a monster, surely it was worth my immortal soul to rid the world of him.” Crowley couldn’t force words from his throat. Ezra turned to face him again and Crowley thought he was smiling, or trying to. “They even let me come back, this one last time.”

“How gracious,” said Crowley flatly.

As if he hadn’t heard Ezra went on, “It was _kind_ of them, to let me come back and see you, explain to you. I had to do it. My dear, please, tell me you understand. I needed to be sure. Please forgive me.” His voice trembled too, and Crowley couldn’t handle it.

“You’re forgiven,” he said, with all the conviction he could dredge up. “But it sounds like you need some more rest, yeah?”

“Crowley,” Ezra began.

“Priest, I said you’re forgiven. We can worry about it later.” Ezra did not appear fully convinced, but he let Crowley help him lie flat again—at which point it took less than a minute for his breath to even out into sleep.

Crowley gave him a few minutes to fall deep enough that incidental sound wouldn’t wake him, got carefully off the bed, and went out onto the balcony. He sat, back to the wall and knees drawn up, and buried his face in his arms. His ability to produce tears had gone along with his eyes, but the sobs still racked him.

* * *

“Wake up and eat something, priest.”

Ezra opened one eye. “Must I?” He tried to sit up and nearly made it. “Bother.”

“You can go back to sleep once you’ve eaten,” said Crowley. He levered Ezra upright. Ezra tried not to resent how easy it looked.

“I've finished with sleep,” Ezra grumbled.

Crowley picked up a plate and shoved it into his hands. “I question that statement,” he said. “But as you like.”

Ezra regarded the plate with little enthusiasm, though he knew Crowley was right. Crowley picked up a plate of his own and sat down—in a chair, not on the bed, and that was more disappointing than Ezra thought it had any right to be. “You know it’s not your fault,” he said, staring into the plate. “It was my decision.”

“Priest,” said Crowley, “I can’t talk about this right now. So eat, and then we’ll decide what you’re doing today.”

“Do you mean you have suggestions?” Ezra grimaced and dutifully took a bite of toast. He could _feel_ that Crowley was furious, and a near-echo of something he’d said at the Faire wasn’t likely to help.

“Something that isn’t strenuous. If you just want to read, that’s fine.”

Ezra nodded, but he couldn’t help himself. “I _am_ sorry,” he said.

“Eat first, we don’t have to decide instantly.”

Ezra put his toast back down. “I didn’t have time to explain,” he said, hearing his voice waver. “I know you’re angry with me and you have every right to be.”

Crowley’s jaw tightened. “I forget, what were you reading last?”

“That hardly matters,” said Ezra. He set his plate on the blanket and stared at his hands for a moment. When he looked back up he caught Crowley staring at him, with a look on his face Ezra had never seen before and that he banished at once. “Please, I just—tell me how to apologise properly. We can still go to Draenor, if you want to.”

Crowley groaned and dropped his fork onto his plate, the better to put his hand over his face. “If Ligur’s not turning me in we don’t need to run, and I already said you’re forgiven. You’re a grown man and you can make your own choices, but choices have consequences. Are you done eating?” Ezra nodded. “Give me that then, and go back to sleep.” Meekly Ezra handed him the plate, and he surveyed it. “You need to eat more than this.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Ezra, pulling his blankets around straight. They didn’t need it, but it was something to do.

“Fine, do as you like, you will anyway.”

In other circumstances Ezra would have been stung, but as it was he felt obliged to give it one more try. “Crowley, I—”

“I said _not now_!” Crowley snapped, almost shouting. For a moment they stared at each other. In a more measured tone, he went on, “I forgive you, priest, but that doesn’t mean I’m not angry. Go to sleep.”

Ezra lay down, twisting in a futile effort to get comfortable. After a few moments it became clear that Crowley didn’t intend to join him, and he turned onto his side the better to huddle into a miserable ball. He hadn’t thought Crowley was that angry.

He didn’t have the wherewithal to stop himself crying; the best he could manage was to do it silently.

Eventually, he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Rangers:** Most Forsaken were humans originally, but there are some elves, like Sylvanas herself, who were killed by the Scourge and rose as self-willed undead. Many of them were the Rangers, who tried to defend their homes against the Lich King. Since Sylvanas was the head of the Rangers, they still work for her. And since Sylvanas and Co. are Extra, they are now the Dark Rangers.
> 
>  **Outland and Draenor:** Outland basically _is_ the main-timeline version of Draenor, and suffered a series of magical calamities caused by the Legion. Its ecosystem was largely wrecked, gravity doesn't always work right, and there are a bunch of places where you can literally fall off the edge of the world. However there were timey-wimey shenanigans, so people from Azeroth can visit the non-Legion-invaded version as well, which is also ~30 years earlier in its history - the divergence point is a prominent orc leader choosing to accept demonic power or not. (This, btw, is why main-timeline orcs are green. Orcs are native to Draenor and normally have brown skin.) In fact, the whole reason Warcraft exists is because the orcs accepted the Legion's power and began to invade Azeroth through the Dark Portal.1 They later decided this had been a bad idea, but their home was sufficiently wrecked that staying on Azeroth seemed like a better choice.
> 
> 1: YOU ARE NOT PREPARED


	27. Chapter 27

Crowley threw himself onto the sofa and tried to lounge. He could tell he was making a hash of it, and resented that fact quite a lot. He wasn’t the one who’d _sold his soul_ , so why should he feel guilty? Just because Ezra was quite obviously crying? He bloody well deserved to. He’d given away what he had no right to give.

That was the thought Crowley kept coming back to; it nagged at him like a splinter in a spot he couldn’t reach. Ezra had no _right_.

Not that it mattered. The thing was done now and they were going to have to live with it. Or _not_ live, which was rather the point.

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered. He wanted to go over to the bed, slip into it, curl comfortingly around Ezra’s back; against that he set his knowledge of his own temper and the significant chance he’d say something that would make it _worse_.

He sat trying to work out what to do for long enough that the bundle of blankets that was Ezra quieted, and that finally broke his resolve. At the side of the bed he bent to take Ezra by the shoulder. “Priest, I…”

But Ezra didn’t stir, his breathing slow and regular with sleep, and Crowley straightened up and ran his hands through his hair. No doubt it was better; he had no idea what to say anyway.

He spent an hour or so working up the will to descend to the commons and acquire something warm for lunch, which Ezra was going to damned well _eat_ if Crowley had to handle the fork for him. The bartender took one look at him and asked if he were feeling well; to his surprise the man’s concern seemed sincere. Everyone liked Ezra, though, so Crowley was no doubt benefitting by association. But he could hardly discuss it, so he brushed the question off in favour of silence.

Once back upstairs, he re-entered the room to discover he needn’t have bothered trying to walk quietly; Ezra was not only awake but up and moving, albeit leaning on the wall. Ezra twisted awkwardly to look at him, and Crowley set the tray hastily down. “ _What_ are you doing? You don’t need a fall on top of everything,” he said, voice sharp even as he crossed the room to offer himself as a prop.

Ezra didn’t reach for him, and in fact twitched away when Crowley took him by the arm. “I wanted to change my shirt,” he said, “and then I’m going to read. Like you said.” He sounded lost, and Crowley felt as if he’d been stabbed.

“Anything you like, priest. That hasn’t changed.”

Ezra turned his face away. “What did, then? We’ve known all along this couldn’t be forever. I was _never_ going to live forever.”

Crowley stared for a helpless second. He didn’t have _words_ for this; he already knew Ezra wouldn’t listen if he tried to explain. Ezra persisted in thinking Crowley was worth sacrificing for. “This hasn’t changed,” he said. “As you wish. I’m angry, and I don’t know how long I’m going to keep being angry, but that doesn’t mean—if you want me gone, I’ll go. But not otherwise.”

Ezra relaxed a bit, and let Crowley take some of his weight. “I can’t tell you how to feel,” he said, with a little more animation. “But I really do want to change my shirt.”

“Right, sit,” said Crowley. “Not a damned word, priest, I will get you a shirt.” He sat Ezra down on the bed. “I’ve only got three days.” He turned to the chest of drawers.

“I can’t imagine I’ll be feeling well in only three days,” said Ezra morosely.

Crowley paused to give him the most skeptical look he could manage. “I wouldn’t count on it being less than two weeks, at the rate you’ve been going. Doesn’t matter much, though, if Mhorduna puts you back in harm’s way he and I are going to have words.”

“Oh dear,” said Ezra. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’m letting everybody down, aren’t I?”

Crowley sighed and straightened up, shirt in hand. “You’re not letting anyone down. You weren’t supposed to be in this fight to begin with.”

“If I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have met you, and that’s just not to be considered.”

“If we were fated, we’d have met somehow. You’re the one who’s supposed to believe in a great plan.” Crowley tossed the fresh shirt onto the bed and helped Ezra off with the one he was wearing.

“I _do_ , but it’s ineffable. It’s not for us to know.”

“Convenient,” said Crowley dryly. “Or maybe I mean the other thing.”

Once the shirt was dealt with Crowley got him to eat most of a bowl of soup; Ezra didn’t seem to enjoy it as he normally would, but he wasn’t actively miserable and that was good enough for a start. They tried the sofa so Ezra could read, but he didn’t last long before needing to go back to bed. This time Crowley got into it with him, too weak to do otherwise, and didn’t get up again after Ezra fell asleep.

The three days slipped past without much to mark them. Ezra slept a great deal, without much regard for time of day, or of night; when he was awake he read aloud, or they continued with their language lessons, or played chess. Crowley used the time when Ezra was asleep to think over what to say to Mhorduna—and how best to express _exactly_ what was going to happen to him if he ordered Ezra into danger. His Common was at least improving fast enough that he wasn’t going to have to say it in Demonic.

They didn’t fight, but Crowley could feel his anger and restless worry, burning under his skin.

* * *

In Dalaran the sun was just up when Mhorduna arrived. His anger at Ezra had mostly dissipated, replaced by worry and not a little confusion. He doubted Ezra would be in any shape to go back into the rotation anytime soon, but that was far less pressing a matter than working out exactly what he thought he’d been doing. At least, it was less pressing on a personal level; Ezra being down yet again was playing havoc with the roster. So many returners preferred more active roles and it made healers difficult to replace. Mhorduna hated to ask Makavi, and besides she was up for a break soon.

His musing carried him to the Legerdemain, and up the stairs. He knocked without checking inside; they deserved some privacy and anyway he had no great desire to risk a headache. From inside he heard the sounds of movement, someone lighter on their feet than Ezra, and a knot of anxiety he hadn’t been examining too closely dissolved.

It seemed Crowley had to get dressed, but soon enough he opened the door. He certainly seemed better than the last time Mhorduna had seen him, but something was still off. “Good day, brother. How’s Ezra?”

Crowley moved out of his way. “Asleep. He has not any wish to see the sun rise.”

Mhorduna murmured agreement as he cast a quick glance around the room. Crowley’s belongings were no longer piled where they could be snatched up on the run, so he believed this location safe enough. “Ezra convinced you of the unlikelihood of an ambush, from the looks of things.” Crowley nodded as he bolted the door, but he was clearly far from relaxed. “I admit, I’m worried,” Mhorduna went on. “I don’t know what he could possibly have done, but he was raised in a merchant family. I think he bargained. Somehow.”

Whatever Crowley said first wasn’t in Common, but Mhorduna recognised enough of the root-words to grasp the essence—the root-words, and the tone of weary fury they emerged in. “He bargained, yes.” If his voice cracked a bit, Mhorduna wasn’t going to mention it. Crowley drew a deep breath. “Ligur is dead for good and all, and as for his payment...Ezra won’t come back again.”

The words struck like darts. “What?”

“He gave it away,” said Crowley, his voice climbing in a parody of Ezra’s.

The fact that Crowley was distressed enough to be _mocking Ezra_ extinguished the faint hope that he’d somehow misspoken, or that Mhorduna had misunderstood. Mhorduna clenched his teeth and stalked to the side of the bed, the better to unceremoniously yank the blankets away. “Ezra, up, _now_.”

Ezra flailed for his vanished covers and, upon not finding them, made a protesting whine. At the edge of his vision Mhorduna saw Crowley twitch. “What,” said Ezra, and opened his eyes. “Oh, is it that time already? Good morning.”

“In Elune’s name, what were you _thinking_?” Mhorduna demanded. He resisted the urge to drop back into Darnassian, not wishing to actively exclude Crowley.

Ezra paused halfway through sitting up, and sighed. “You told him,” he said to Crowley, faintly accusatory.

“He needed knowing,” said Crowley tightly. He stood with arms crossed and his eyes were burning brighter than Mhorduna had ever seen them.

“He needed _to know_ ,” said Ezra, in his lecturing voice. “Or I suppose you could say _He needed the knowledge_ , but that—”

“Enough. Were _you_ planning to tell me?” asked Mhorduna. Ezra said nothing, which was answer enough. “You were going to let me send you back into danger, knowing for certain that you wouldn’t return if something went wrong.” Mhorduna shook his head. “I trusted you, Ezra, and I thought you trusted me.”

“Mhorduna,” Ezra began, visibly thought better of it, and amended himself to, “Boss. It’s only that I didn’t want to _worry_ you.”

Mhorduna let the absurdity of that statement lie for a long moment, until Ezra began to fidget with his ring. “Pack up. Fast. You are going to the garrison for the foreseeable future, and neither Light nor naaru will help you if you set so much as a toe outside it. Elune herself won’t help you.”

“But I—”

Mhorduna raised his eyebrows. “Unless you’re leaving the guild, you’ll do as I say.” He had never enjoyed playing the authoritarian with his guild members, but there was a human saying that felt appropriate: _Desperate times call for desperate measures._

Ezra hesitated, looking over at Crowley; Crowley continued to stand where he was. “Yes, boss,” said Ezra unhappily, and set about climbing off the bed. Mhorduna watched him long enough to be sure he could manage without falling, and then opened his belt pouch.

The hearthstone was a little smaller than a normal personal one. Mhorduna tossed it to Crowley, who was startled enough that he almost didn’t catch it. After a beat Crowley looked up from it with a question large enough to read written on his face. “That’s for you,” said Mhorduna. “The garrison’s on Draenor, and the soldiers there wear blue but they’re locals and I honestly don’t think they care much about the Horde and the Alliance. If I tell them you’re welcome, no one will object.” He’d have to get another stone for himself. In the meantime… “I’m going to go get a drink while you pack. I need one.” Ezra, busy at the clothes-chest, nodded; Crowley appeared to still be trying to puzzle out what was going on.

Mhorduna moved a bit closer. He didn’t like the language much more than Crowley did, but he wanted to be absolutely certain there were no misunderstandings—and under the circumstances it did not hurt at all that Ezra _wouldn’t_ understand. “He’ll be safe, I promise,” he said in Eredun. “The garrison was Makavi’s, but she gave it to the guild when she joined. It’s well-defended. You won’t lose him if I can prevent it.” Madness it might be, but it had been some time since Mhorduna had been able to doubt what had happened to Crowley.

After a beat, Crowley nodded. “Thank you.”

“I suggest you find his hearthstones. I wouldn’t trust him with them right now.”

Crowley gave a laugh that sounded startled out of him. “I was just thinking that.”

“That’s because you’ve met him.” Mhorduna sighed and dropped back into Common. “I need a drink.”

“I will stand watch,” Crowley replied. And Mhorduna knew it for the oath it was.

* * *

Crowley would have been lying if he’d tried to say he didn’t find Mhorduna’s reaction satisfying, even though Mhorduna’s reasons weren’t the same. Satisfaction lasted for nearly ten seconds, until he realised that Ezra wasn’t doing anything anymore, just leaning over the open drawer and sniffling.

“Do you need help?” Crowley asked, making an effort not to snap. Practical concerns would at least get Ezra’s mind off being unhappy; Crowley didn’t have a lot of time to fix this. It had not escaped notice that he hadn’t been around much lately when not actively on assignment, and telling Mhorduna he might be able to stay for the rest of the day had been aspirational, rather than a good idea.

“No,” said Ezra in a watery voice. “I’m going to keep the room, I think, so I can leave anything I don’t need right away.” He was very obviously trying not to burst into active tears again.

Crowley held out for all of another breath before he crossed to Ezra’s side. “It won’t be forever,” he said, and Ezra winced. “You just need to be somewhere safe for a bit.”

Ezra didn’t move. “A _bit_ ,” he said. “There’s still a war on, and we’re still on opposite sides of it. Mhorduna won’t want to let me _help_ anyone.”

Crowley tried not to, he really did, but what emerged from between his clenched teeth was, “Maybe you should have considered that before you sold your life.”

“I didn’t sell it,” Ezra insisted, looking up at last. “I gave back a surplus, in exchange for a substantial benefit.”

Crowley spun and stalked two steps towards the door, stopped, and turned back. “ _Surplus_? You _thief_! I could have run,” he said. “Sylvanas won’t be warchief forever, not at the rate she's going. I could have run, and waited it out. Tell me the truth, priest, would you have done this _just_ to keep Ligur down?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Ezra, with a spark of anger of his own. “But I don’t think I know where it’s written that only Illidari are allowed to sacrifice.”

Crowley felt his fingernails suddenly biting into his palm, and hissed, “When I did this, I had _nothing_. No one loved me. No one cared if I lived or died. It was better me than someone who still had family left. If I had died, it wouldn't have _mattered_.” He advanced on Ezra until they were all but nose-to-nose. “You have—your guild, and your friends, and your business and your books, and by your _Light_ , Ezra, _you have me_!” He seized Ezra by the front of his shirt and shoved until the backs of his legs hit the chest of drawers. “You can give up whatever you like, _priest_ , but you needn’t think it's without consequences.”

Ezra did not even pretend to be intimidated. “You say that as if there’s something _worse_ than a world without you in it.”

“ _There is for me!_ ” Crowley snarled. “Tell me, which of us was concerned that humans don't live as long as elves? I'm _sure_ I remember that coming up.”

“Do you want to hear me say that it was selfish?” Ezra demanded. “Very well: it was selfish. I don’t _want_ to have to live without you!”

Crowley’s shoulders slumped and his hands let go, and he wished desperately that he could close his damned eyes. A moment passed. Much more softly, Ezra said, “I only wanted to protect you.” He leant forward until he could press his face into the curve of Crowley’s neck.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” said Crowley, and promptly undermined himself by letting his hands settle on Ezra’s waist. “D’you think I’d be angry if I didn’t know that?”

Ezra’s arms wrapped around him. “Even if you could have run...you know what he was. I couldn’t be his _toy_ any longer.”

“I’d have killed him till it stuck,” Crowley mumbled into Ezra’s hair.

“I know, but it would have been too dangerous.”

“Only the first one would have been dangerous,” Crowley argued. “After that I could have just camped out near a spirit healer with his body.” He didn’t approve of that sort of behaviour, but for Ligur he’d have made an exception. “We should get you packed.”

Ezra kissed him just under his ear and he shivered. “There’s no point in packing. The only thing I want to take with me, I can’t.”

“You say that now, but you’ll be missing your books soon enough.”

“I can send for them,” said Ezra. His hands swept in lazy arcs across Crowley’s back.

“Priest, we don’t have time for this, I need to be going.”

“Just a kiss, my sun. You can’t be so angry you’d deny me a kiss.”

“You’re a bloody menace,” said Crowley, and kissed him.

Out on the landing, Mhorduna sighed in relief and went quietly down the stairs in search of his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Naaru:** Incarnations of the Light, in the realm of seraphim or lesser gods in terms of power. They aren't even roughly humanoid and "fear not" is probably something you'd need to hear upon first encountering one.


	28. Chapter 28

Crowley hadn’t spent much time on Draenor; it hadn’t been accessible until after he’d gone into the Vault and by the time he was out, the action had moved back to Azeroth. He’d made a few quick trips, but had seen nothing more than a Horde outpost on the far side of the continent and the near-perpetual snowfields that surrounded it.

By contrast, the air in Shadowmoon Valley smelt of a forest when he materialized there. The three people in the long, low room he arrived in all looked very startled. He held up his hands and said, “Mhorduna said you would expect me.” He thought that wasn’t quite the right verb form, but it got the meaning across. For a tense moment he wasn’t sure one of the guards had gotten the news, but then she took her hand off her sword hilt.

“You are here to see Ezra,” said another, in his odd accent.

“Yes. Could you…” He couldn’t remember the right word, but fortunately Common had three words for everything. “...take me there? I like not, _don’t like_ , to worry people.” Nor did he much want to have to defend himself against a misguided attack; it seemed far too likely to lead to unpleasantness.

Crenellated stone walls surrounded the garrison, a collection of barracks, stables, and workshops scattered around a central plaza. The builders had left a fair amount of vegetation, none of which Crowley recognised, and the sunlight, though bright, felt subtly odd. As promised, the inhabitants were all draenei and none of them gave him a second look once they saw his escort. No one spoke on the short walk, but there was a challenge-and-response look exchanged with the guard at the barracks door that felt entirely _pro forma_.

Once inside, one of the men pointed across the main hall to a half-open door. “He works in there.”

“Ta,” said Crowley. The draenei cocked his head, and Crowley managed, “Erm, thanks.”

“You are welcome,” he said, and walked back out. As far as Crowley could tell, draenei were always very serious about everything; he couldn’t imagine one telling a joke.

The door was cracked, and Crowley could see a sliver of the room as he approached, every flat surface covered in the clutter that always accumulated as if by magic in any place Ezra inhabited for more than a few minutes. Then he rounded the door and stopped short.

Ezra stood at a washbasin on the far side of the room. He had rolled up the sleeves of his loose shirt, which kept his cuffs out of the water and bared his forearms, and neatly extinguished the impulse to twit him for standing with his back to an open door. Crowley watched him washing his hands for a good half-minute before gathering enough wit to lean into the door jamb, as if casually, and knock.

* * *

Not so long ago, three weeks alone with his books would have been a blessing, a longed-for indulgence. Now, Ezra didn’t know how much more of it he could stand.

Once he’d recovered, he’d set up a workroom in the barracks, somewhere for the draenei to bring the injured that their minor innate powers of healing couldn’t handle. So far there hadn’t been anything more taxing than a badly-sprained ankle, which suggested his hosts were only humoring him with the work, and Ezra slogged from the barracks back to his little room in the keep every evening in a cloud of guilt. The Them were down a healer, permanently, while he stayed safe in hiding, mending training accidents and head colds, and it was entirely his own fault.

He was nearly done scrubbing away the dirt of his afternoon’s expedition to the garden when someone knocked. “Enter, I’ll see to you in a moment,” he said, reaching for a towel.

“I look forward to it,” a familiar voice drawled, and Ezra gasped, “Crowley!” as he turned, clutching the towel to his chest in both hands.

Crowley stood in the doorway, leaning on the jamb, and Ezra’s mouth went dry at the sight of him; those breeches really were _quite_ close-fitting and if the hem of his tunic hadn’t been as low as it was Ezra might have demanded he not go out in public wearing them. They were of course black, like the tunic, but the sleeves of his shirt were deep crimson. He should have been a portrait, a study in red and black. “Hello, priest,” he said.

Ezra had crossed the room before he noticed he was moving, and didn’t stop until he could wrap his arms around Crowley’s neck. He tried to keep his wet hands away from the tunic, which was of excellent quality—clothing being the only thing Crowley allowed himself to spend unnecessary money on, as far as Ezra could tell—but there was only so much he could be expected to withstand. “I’ve _missed_ you,” said Ezra, somewhat muffled by the side of Crowley’s neck. “Are you alright, are you safe?”

“Safe’s a relative term,” said Crowley, with a rather constrained shrug. “If I'm in more trouble these days than I get into sneaking about Kul Tiras, I don't know about it. And you?”

Ezra tried not to sound as if he were pouting, but he didn’t think the effort was very successful. “The only thing here that could threaten me is deadly boredom. I’m a walking bandage roll.”

“And that’s why I’ve never studied healing magic,” said Crowley. He pushed Ezra gently back and took one of his hands in both of his own. “What’ve you been doing besides that? Reading?”

“A bit.” His ability to get lost in a book had not abandoned him, at least. “And there’s an herb garden which is lovely, I’m just back but we could go have a look if you like, oh, but I have a present for you in my room so perhaps we should go there first?”

“Well, you know I am very fond of plants,” Crowley replied.

Crestfallen, Ezra said, “Of course, my dear.”

Crowley’s lips twitched and Ezra realised he was being teased. “Priest. Let’s go to your room.”

In truth Ezra found it a bit surprising; surely Crowley was still angry with him? But he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Well? Lead the way.”

Ezra’s room, on the ground floor of the keep, was comfortable if not large; he’d have enjoyed his stay there if it hadn’t been compulsory. Like the other private rooms it opened off a larger central chamber. Ezra didn’t know what the hall had been meant for when the garrison had been more active but these days the guild mostly used it to drink in.

His room’s heavy door had been a bit of a trial while he was still recovering, but Ezra couldn’t complain; it helped keep the noise out. The room contained a desk, a chest of drawers, a small table on which he kept his fighting gear—unlikely though it was that he’d need it close to hand—and a bed, which was large enough to feel lonely when he was in it by himself.

“Your druid did well for herself here,” said Crowley. Ezra jumped a bit. “What did she do that they put up a statue?” From the look on his face he found it funny, but didn’t want to say so aloud.

“She helped them a great deal when the Alliance came here. The Shadowmoon orcs were causing trouble, and that’s not to mention the Iron Horde.”

“Heard about that.”

Ezra thought he managed to hide his wince; Crowley did not like discussing the Illidari’s time in Warden custody. He hurried on, “In any case, Maka never thought they would ask her to remain in command once the immediate crisis was over, but they did. So she made it community property, as it were, when she joined the Them.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, now I know what it means,” said Crowley, diverted. “Why is your guild called the Them?”

“Because Mhorduna is the guildmaster, and he’s Illidari,” Ezra replied. “People looked at us, well, not really ‘us’, it was before I joined, and said, oh, _them_. And he decided to use it, to spite them.”

“Good for Mhorduna.”

“I quite agree.” Ezra sat down at the desk, the better to open a drawer. “Maka and Mhorduna have rooms here, and I’m using this spare one for the foreseeable future,” he tried not to sound sour about it, “and there’s one other that can be used if someone needs to recover.” The ebony box was perhaps a bit extravagant, but Ezra thought they had moved past comparing the monetary value of gifts; he held it out. “Here, this is for you.”

As always, bafflement flashed over Crowley’s face, but he took the box and frowned down at it for a moment before opening it. He picked out one of the blindfolds and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. “Thank you,” he said. “It must’ve taken hours to do all these.”

“I’ve had a bit of time on my hands,” said Ezra. “How long can you stay?”

Crowley’s shoulders slumped a little and he closed the box. “Only a few hours. I should leave when it gets dark, or not long after.” Ezra’s heart sank. He’d been hoping for one night, at least. “It won’t be so long till I can come again. We’re taking fewer contracts at the moment, I’ll have more free time.”

Ezra took the box out of Crowley’s hands and set it on the desk. “Well, if our time is limited, we must make the most of it.” He stood up and slid his hands along Crowley’s forearms.

“What were we talking about?” Crowley asked.

“Makavi,” said Ezra.

Crowley huffed. “Let’s not.”

“Do you want to see the garden, then?”

Drawing Ezra with him Crowley stepped backwards until he was up against the bed. “I don’t fancy that either.” It was about as blatant an invitation as Ezra had ever seen Crowley manage, and who was he to deny it?

He moved closer to put his arms around Crowley’s waist; when Crowley returned the embrace Ezra tightened his hold, twisted, and let himself fall back onto the bed. They landed with a thump. “It’s a puzzle, then. What do you fancy?” He slipped one hand under the hem of Crowley’s tunic and trailed his fingers across his back, just above the line of his breeches, and was rewarded with a delicious little shudder.

“You’re clever, you can work it out,” said Crowley. He didn’t sound nearly breathless enough for Ezra’s tastes.

One hand on the back of his neck pulled him close enough for Ezra to speak directly into his ear. “We could play chess. Or I could read something. I have the most fascinating book on gardening, it suggests you talk to your pl—”

Crowley’s mouth descended on his, cutting him off—not that he objected. But it wasn’t quite perfect, and Ezra had slightly better leverage; he rolled them until he was pinning Crowley down. “So impatient, my sun. I was only trying to be polite.”

“And this is a moment to be concerned with manners, is it?” He was trying very hard to be sardonic, and nearly succeeding.

“Of course. I would be remiss to not handle you with care.”

Crowley gave an indignant wiggle that was exactly the opposite of dissuasive and said, “I’m not _delicate_.”

Ezra leant down and nipped his neck. Crowley made a high-pitched noise he would no doubt deny unto death. “It’s not only delicate things that need to be handled with care.” Finally Ezra worked one hand beneath both tunic and shirt, and stroked up over the ridges of Crowley’s ribs. He could feel Crowley relaxing, and found it intoxicating. No matter how powerful his shadows could be, Ezra didn’t have much experience in fighting physically; if Crowley had wanted to, he could have freed himself instantly. That he stayed where he was, let Ezra hold him down...Ezra could barely believe it. “Let me show you.”

“Nnh,” said Crowley. Ezra stopped moving. “You bastard. Yes, anything you like.”

As I wish? And Ezra smiled.

* * *

Crowley knew he needed to get up. Dusk was falling, visible through the room’s window, and it was about time for him to be on his way. Moving, however, would mean leaving his current position and as far as he was concerned that wasn’t to be borne. He lay with his head on Ezra’s chest, where he could hear the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart. Every beat said _He’s here, he’s alive, he’s well_ , and Crowley never wanted to stop hearing it.

Ezra’s hand, combing through his hair, slowed. “You should go,” he said quietly.

Crowley twisted and slid up until they were face to face. “I don’t want to.”

“Well, I hope you don’t expect me to argue with you, but if you don’t go now I don’t know that I’m going to let you.” Ezra’s arms tightened around him, and Crowley wanted to sink into them.

“I can stay a few more minutes,” he said stubbornly, running a finger along Ezra’s collarbone.

Ezra huffed and said, “A few more won’t be enough.” Crowley didn’t answer; he couldn’t dispute it and refused to agree. “You need to keep up appearances, my dear. I won’t be the reason you have more trouble with Hastur, or anyone else.”

Well, that neatly killed the mood. Crowley sat up, Ezra’s arms slipping away to let him. The hair ties, unsurprisingly, had worked their way free of his hair and he pawed through the bedclothes in search of them. “He’s been on a tear since he realised Ligur wasn’t coming back. They’d been friends since he was raised as Forsaken, if it weren’t _Hastur_ I’d feel sorry for him.”

Ezra sat up as well. “Whoever you buy those ties from must make a tidy profit, with the number of them you lose.”

“I didn’t expect them to be so bloody slippery,” Crowley grumbled, and gave up. They would appear or they wouldn’t. He scooped clothing from the floor at random and handed Ezra his trousers. “How’s the guild?”

“I don’t exactly have my finger upon the pulse of current events,” said Ezra. “I haven’t seen anyone since a few days after I got here. Though I suppose they’d have sent word if anything horrid had happened.”

“No news is good news, I suppose.”

“Quite.”

* * *

They got dressed, and Crowley dug another tie out of his bag to put his hair back, and Ezra didn’t want him to leave. He racked his brain for a delaying tactic. “Let me check your blindfold, my dear, it looks loose.”

“Feels fine, but I’ve been wrong before,” said Crowley agreeably, and turned his back.

It was a blatant excuse to play with Crowley’s hair, though Ezra did give the tails of the cloth a perfunctory tug. A few seconds later Crowley faced him again. Ezra reached out to fuss with his tunic, chasing wrinkles and twitching it to fall better; Crowley let him, briefly, and then took his hands firmly to still their movement. “Ezra, enough, it's a barracks, not a party. I’m going to just leave from here, you should tell the watch officer.”

Ezra managed a smile. “They know who you are.”

Tricky though it was for someone wearing a blindfold to look exasperated, Crowley managed. “Knowing not to kill me when I showed up is one thing. Knowing I was here and not being able to find me later is another. It’s only polite.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re fussed about manners,” said Ezra archly.

“Right, that’s enough out of you,” Crowley growled at him in mock irritation, and kissed him.

After a few pleasant moments Ezra said, “I’ll find the watch officer. Mind how you go.”

Crowley picked up the box with one hand and retrieved his hearthstone with the other. “Only if you promise to stay out of trouble.”

Despite himself Ezra laughed. “What trouble can I get into here?”

“I don’t know,” said Crowley, with one of those heart-stopping grins. “But you’re very talented.”

“So kind of you to have noticed, my sun,” said Ezra sweetly.

Crowley was still laughing when the magic of the hearthstone flared and faded.

Ezra took a moment to compose himself before he set out in search of one of the draenei. He hadn’t shut the door all the way, and would have felt embarrassed about it save that Crowley hadn’t noticed either. He stepped out into the main room, and a pillow hit him in the chest.

Makavi, the thrower, sat on the long rectangular table that was the room’s main furniture. Beside her, in a chair, was Mhorduna. Behind them, essentially the entire guild. Ezra was the only person present who had neither a drink in his hand nor a grin on his face.

“Happy beer day, Ez!” Makavi exclaimed. She sounded positively gleeful and Ezra had a strong, sudden foreboding about _why_. “We came to keep you company in your exile, figured you might want to have a drink.” She saluted him with her glass.

“Well, that’s, erm, perfectly lovely of you,” said Ezra weakly. “I do hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Not long,” said Makavi cheerfully. Ezra wilted in relief. “Only a few hours.”

“A few _hours_?” he squeaked.

Mhorduna said, “He’s gone?”

Ezra nodded, unable to form words.

“Then come have a drink.” A beer stein sat on the table; Mhorduna shoved it in Ezra’s direction. Ezra, who could recognise the inevitable when he saw it, started towards the table.

On the far side of it, Siegrunë ruffled her wolf companion’s ears with one hand. “You know,” she said to no one in particular, “I always thought he was called the master of tongues because he spoke so many languages.” The room exploded in laughter.

Ezra snatched up the stein in both hands and gulped from it.

* * *

A week and a half and two short visits to Draenor later, Crowley went shopping.

He rather hated shopping; it was the price he paid for dressing nicely. But this time he had a mission.

He was fairly sure he visited every tailor’s shop in the Dazar’alor merchant’s quarter before deciding to purchase from this one. The place sold armour specifically, insofar as things made exclusively of cloth can be referred to as ‘armour’, and what drew Crowley to it was the ornamentation on its wares. Even he could tell the quality of the work, and nothing was blatantly trollish in aesthetic—not that he disliked trollish aesthetics, but the potential for awkwardness was high. Ezra couldn’t wear something that looked like it had come straight from Zandalar.

Crowley ended up with a pair of fingerless gloves that the shop attendant assured him were cream-colored—he’d discovered the first time he’d gone shopping after Illidan that he needed to make sure people were telling him the truth about what colour things were, but the Zandalari had passed the test—with embroidery in gold to suggest rays of light. The enchantments on them felt solid, and they weren’t even out of his budget. Once they’d been wrapped he headed for the shop door, slinging his bag around on his shoulder as he dropped the package in. The maneuver distracted him enough that as he stepped out into the street someone walked straight into him.

“ _Crawly_ ,” said Hastur. “Watch your step, filth.”

“Why, Hastur, so terrible to see you,” Crowley replied, with a voice as full of fake friendliness as he could make it and a smile that wasn’t meant to look sincere. He took two quick steps away; he didn’t like appearing to back down, but he liked being within Hastur’s reach quite a bit less. He let go of the package rather than stowing it carefully and fastened the bag closed. He’d gotten into the habit of letting his fingers slip over the engraving on the clasp.

A lock of hair fell into his face. Crowley sighed, but he didn’t want to take his attention off Hastur to find out where the sodding hair tie had got to. He’d bought a handful of new ones on his trip through the market, the same style but made of (he hoped) less slippery ribbon. “So, committed any good war crimes lately?”

Hastur took a step forward; Crowley shifted his weight. But Hastur bent to pluck his hair tie from the pavement and held it up, pinched between finger and thumb like he had a dead rat by the tail. “This yours?”

“Well, it was, but then you touched it,” said Crowley, still smiling. “So sorry, must dash, got to go bathe.” Forsaken did not in fact smell bad as a rule, but real water did a fine job of expunging psychic grime. He took a pointed, exaggerated step to the side so he could pass Hastur without risking brushing against him again.

“You should get a pet, Crawly,” said Hastur. “Pay someone to suffer your company, it’ll never happen any other way.”

Crowley stopped and turned. His smile remained in place but only because it bared his teeth. “Pets aren’t my idea of a good time, Froggie. That’s your game, yours and Ligur’s. Or I should say, it _was_ Ligur’s, but I hear he's not coming back.”

Hastur’s hand went to his dagger and he snarled, “I should cut out your tongue and feed it to you for daring to use his name.”

“You’re _welcome_ to try,” said Crowley, his voice gone flat. “And on the off-chance that you succeed, when I'm back we'll have a lovely chat with command. _Well you see, ma'am, he said things I didn't like and I decided my hurt feelings were more important than him being in fighting shape_. Let's do that, shall we? It will be very entertaining—for me.” At the periphery of his attention he could see that a few constables—or whatever the Zandalari called them—had taken notice. He spread out his hands to make it clear that he wasn’t the one threatening physical violence. “Well?”

Hastur glared, but he’d seen the constables too. “Coward,” he said. Crowley wished wistfully for the ability to roll his eyes. “Soft. At least most of you freaks will _fight_.” Crowley shrugged. Hastur didn’t spit; Forsaken weren’t capable of it. “Sleep lightly.”

Crowley didn’t reply, and after another moment Hastur turned on his heel and stalked off. Crowley waited until he’d turned a corner before he let himself relax. “Well. That was a thing,” he muttered. But he was in a decent mood, and he didn’t plan to let Hastur ruin it. In the morning he’d be going to spend the day with Ezra, and that was something to look forward to. He hiked his bag higher on his shoulder and headed for the guild’s rooms.

* * *

Back in his quarters, Hastur pulled the freak’s hair tie out of his pocket and laid it on his desk, next to the one he’d picked up on Darkmoon Isle. Identical, the same red ribbon, the same little metal balls on the ends. He’d always avoided looking closely enough at Crawly to notice what he did with his hair.

He thought about the freak’s fingers caressing the clasp of his bag. The symbol engraved there had been different from the usual symbol of the Fallwaters—different in the same way their pet’s had been different.

A black blindfold lay in the drawer as well, and he took it out. Though tattered, it had been nicely made, just as nicely as the one Crawly had been wearing. And the Illidari wore leather armour, so what had the freak been doing in a shop that sold only cloth? Hastur’s fist clenched around the strip of fabric.

He’d assumed that it had been some Alliance scum who had killed Ligur, some untrustworthy blueskin who’d sold what little soul they had to the Great Betrayer.

He’d been _wrong_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Vault:** Illidan Stormrage, the originator and leader of the Illidari, was the Big Bad of the first WoW expansion. He amassed an army of elves, both Alliance (night elves/kaldorei) and Horde (blood elves/sin'dorei) and taught them how to absorb demonic powers as well. Everyone else thought that he had joined the Burning Legion; in reality he was operating in deep cover, learning about the Legion in order to better destroy it. He sent the Illidari to Mardum to retrieve a powerful magical artifact, and when they returned they found him under attack in the Black Temple on Outland. He was killed (temporarily; in our terms Illidan has an immortal soul) and the Illidari were captured by the Wardens - essentially, night elf Interpol. The Illidari spent the eight or so years after Illidan's fall imprisoned1. Then the Legion came back, the Wardens realised the world was in imminent danger of being overrun, and everyone shrugged and said, "Well, if we _don't_ let them out to fight we're all dead anyway so!"
> 
> Crowley and the other Illidari have some frickin' trauma, is my point here.
> 
> 1: It's not clear whether they were awake, or in some kind of suspended animation. Yr obd't svt sincerely hopes it was the latter, as their 'cells' were too small to _sit down in_.


	29. Chapter 29

The day on Draenor was not quite the same length as on Azeroth, but their respective mornings were temporarily aligned; for Crowley the angle of the light changed very little when he appeared in the garrison’s keep. One sleepy watchman sat in a chair against the wall, and apparently couldn’t be arsed to do more than make it clear he’d noticed Crowley was there.

As he crossed the courtyard Crowley wondered idly if Mhorduna would object to Ezra going on a short, escorted trip outside the walls one of these days. He was quite curious to get out into the woods here; he’d seen a few plants that he rather wanted a crack at. But he wasn’t willing to give up time with Ezra for herbology.

When he arrived at Ezra’s door, it was closed; he knocked. Receiving no answer nor sound of movement, Crowley tried the latch, but it didn’t budge. Ezra had, apparently, remembered to bolt the door, which Crowley approved of in general but was a bit inconvenient in the moment. He knocked again. “Priest?”

Behind him, someone giggled. Crowley spun to find Makavi seated at the far end of the table. Two mugs sat before her; scattered around were enough bottles for a small platoon, in various states of emptiness. “Give him some time, I think he’s still hammered,” she said. He knew what a _hammer_ was; between that and the context he inferred she meant Ezra had gotten drunk. “Come and keep me company.”

Crowley’s eyebrows went up, but he felt it behooved him to take an opportunity to make friends with Ezra’s druid. “Good day,” he said, as he made his way toward her. “I hope you’re well.”

Makavi lifted one hand and tilted it back and forth. Crowley took a chair. “I was in a mood,” she said. “Came to pester him for a bit. The bolt is to keep me out.” She slid one of the mugs towards him.

Crowley could smell it from arms’ length. “I don’t wish to seem to not accept your hospitality, but if that’s ale I would rather not.”

“Fair enough,” said Makavi, shrugging. “I probably wasn’t going to get you drunk enough to spill your guts anyway.”

“Spill my _guts_?” She showed no sign of aggression, but that could change rapidly; he’d _seen_ druids shift to cat-form mid-leap. He got his feet a little more solidly under him, just in case.

Makavi sat back a bit further in her chair. “It means talk. Tell me a story.”

“A story,” Crowley repeated. “About what?” He racked his brain. Was she trying to go to sleep after their long night drinking? Did he know any stories appropriate for a panther at bedtime?

“About how Ezra managed to piss Mhorduna off enough to earn himself a permanent time out, but not enough to be kept away from you.”

Crowley studied her for a moment. “I think very—no, I very much think that you should ask Ezra.”

“I did,” she said, and made an expansive gesture over the collection of bottles. “Once before we got drunk, and twice after.” She reached under the table, came back up with nothing more threatening than yet another pair of bottles, and offered him one. He took it. “Arcwine. Anyway he told me he’d hurt you, Mhorduna, and all the rest of the guild, and eventually went and hid in his room.”

Crowley took the bottle and turned it thoughtfully in his hands. “You understand, it’s his story for telling or not telling, yes? I think I can’t. I made no…” His Common failed; he said ‘oaths’ in Thalassian in the hopes she’d be able to grasp it. After a moment she nodded. “But I don’t need an _oath_ about it to think I have to keep his secrets.”

Makavi heaved a sigh. “I might have known, but I’ll figure it out eventually. Well. My keep is your keep, as they say.” She jerked her chin in the direction of Ezra’s door and said, “If you hit the stone one away from the frame at latch height, the bolt will let go. Enjoy your wine.”

Crowley stood as she did. “My thanks,” he said. She waved dismissively and vanished into, he assumed, her own room. Crowley went back over to Ezra’s door, hoping she wasn’t offended, and rapped the indicated stone. In the wall a _thunk_ sounded and sure enough, the bolt slipped open. He hoped that was on purpose, some sort of emergency measure; if not, it urgently needed to be fixed.

Inside it was dim as twilight, the curtains drawn. Ezra was an undefined lump on the bed, buried in the covers; Crowley couldn’t immediately tell which end was which. He closed the door behind him, set his things on the desk, and went to sit on the edge of the bed. It took him a few moments to suss out Ezra’s shoulder for the purposes of shaking it.

Ezra burrowed deeper into his nest and said, “Maka, I told you I don’t want to talk about it.” The sentence, being both in Common and very indistinct, took a moment to translate.

“Do I look like a druid to you?” said Crowley.

Ezra rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. It looked like it took some effort. “Well, hello,” he said. “How long?”

“All day, then I’ve got to go back and get some sleep. I’d stay here but Mirimë’s going to expect to find me in my room,” said Crowley. “D’you want me to go fetch something to eat while you get out of bed?”

“I don’t want you to, but you probably should,” said Ezra gloomily. “Did I forget to bolt the door?”

“Your druid told me how to unlatch it.”

“Oh.” Ezra rolled again, dragging a swath of the bedclothes behind him, to curl around Crowley like a cat determined not to be ignored. “That’s meant for emergencies.”

“It was an emergency. You were asleep and I couldn’t get in,” said Crowley.

Ezra laughed into his knee. “A whole day, we need to do something to celebrate. There’s a fishing pond just outside the east gate, if you’d like.”

“We can’t go out, priest, I didn’t bring my gear.”

“Oh, the whole area is protected,” said Ezra. “There are cliffs down to the sea.”

“Anything you like, then.” Crowley surveyed him. “Assuming you can get up.”

“Of course I can get up,” said Ezra. “Though if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like some water first.”

* * *

Crowley poured him water from the pitcher on his desk while Ezra achieved a sitting position. His head was pounding and his stomach uncertain, and after a few moments he sighed, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Doing magic on oneself was always a little easier than on someone else, which in cases like this was very fortunate. He supposed it was self-indulgent to use his Light-granted magic to banish a hangover, but he didn’t intend to spend his precious time with Crowley being poor company. Healing magic did nothing for the taste in his mouth, and Ezra applied himself to the cup in the hopes it would help.

“Think your druid’s worried about you,” said Crowley. He sat back down on the bed.

“The fewer people who know what’s happened, the better,” said Ezra. He drank a bit more. “Besides, I don’t want to worry her more.” Crowley made a noncommittal noise.

Ezra nursed his water, and then steeled himself to get out of bed; hangover or no, he hadn’t gotten as much sleep as he might have liked. Standing on his feet helped.

He washed his face at the basin, and turned away from it feeling much improved. “So, my dear, the pond?”

“You might want to put clothes on first,” said Crowley dryly. “Not that I’m not appreciating the view, but draenei seem to be easily shocked.” Ezra looked down at himself and discovered that he was only wearing his braies, and one sock. Now that he thought about it he vaguely recalled stripping off his shirt and trousers before collapsing into bed—though that didn’t explain the fate of the second sock.

“Of course I meant after I got dressed,” he said. Crowley did not say aloud that he doubted it; his expression was eloquent enough. “In any case, if the draenei survived the party they can surely live with a bare chest.” Nonetheless he went to the chest of drawers; he wanted a complete pair of socks, and for no one else to see his scars.

“Party? I thought it was just you and Makavi.”

“Not last night, two weeks ago,” said Ezra, and then cursed himself. He didn’t much want to tell Crowley they’d been overheard. “Almost everyone in the guild was here. I think we were still at it when the sun came up.”

“Why, priest! I never knew you had it in you,” said Crowley, sounding delighted. “Drunken revelry, whatever will the children think?”

Momentarily diverted, Ezra glanced at him, but he didn’t seem disturbed; he hid his sigh of relief by hunting for a shirt. “There were no children allowed. We drank quite a lot, and the talk was rather...adult.”

“ _Metaphorical_ children,” Crowley replied. As Ezra shrugged into his shirt, Crowley stood up. “Here, I have something for you.”

The something, when Ezra opened the package, turned out to be a pair of half-gloves, more rays of light in gold on cream. He could feel enchantments on them, for strength and precision and accuracy, and running below those another that the crafter surely hadn’t placed: be safe, you are loved. “My sun…” he said.

Crowley said, “I’ll be damned again if you’re not as safe as I can make you when you talk Mhorduna into taking you back out.” He seemed to have discovered something fascinating on the floor near Ezra’s feet.

Ezra ghosted his fingers up Crowley’s neck to the underside of his chin, and after a moment Crowley allowed his face to be moved. “I won’t,” said Ezra. “You want me to be safe. Mhorduna does too. I won’t ask. I’ll find some other way to help, I promise. And in the meantime I’ll wait here, for you.”

“You can’t stay here forever, much though I might like you to,” said Crowley.

“Well, that’s true. For one thing, in a few weeks I’ll have to go back to Boralus for the day, as there’s a meeting I should attend.” Ezra set the gloves down carefully next to his other gear so that he could put on trousers.

Crowley jerked his chin at the gloves and said, “Ran into Hastur while I was picking those up. He’s pleasant as ever, the berk.”

Ezra paused. “Nothing, erm, _happened_?”

“He threatened me a bit but that’s how Hastur says hello. If he does anything to me, he’ll have to explain to Command why he put me out of commission and he doesn’t want to do that.” Crowley sounded unconcerned, so Ezra quashed his anxiety and returned to dressing.

After the added delay of a few kisses, soon enough they were ready to set out. Ezra happened to be the one who opened the door, and thus saw Siegrunë approaching in time to nudge Crowley out of her line of sight.

“Hey, Ezra, I need Maka,” said Sieg. She wore her white hair short; it made a stark contrast with the blue of her skin. “It’s my day off.”

“I believe she’s in her room, my dear,” Ezra replied.

“Thanks.” She smirked at him. “And what are you hiding, oh master of tongues?” Ezra bit his lip and she laughed. “Don’t worry so much. Your little secret is safe with us.”

“Thank you,” Ezra managed.

She shrugged and went off in the direction of Makavi’s room. Ezra closed the door again and leant back against it. “Best wait a moment,” he said.

“Bit late to be keeping me a secret, don’t you think?” Crowley sounded amused rather than petulant, to Ezra’s relief.

* * *

“I suppose,” said Ezra. “That cat’s been well and truly out of the bag since the party...oh dear.”

A horrible suspicion took root in Crowley’s mind. “Priest. When you said that party was two weeks ago, did you mean _exactly_ two weeks?”

“Yes?” said Ezra.

“I was _here_ two weeks ago. All afternoon.”

“Yes,” said Ezra again. He straightened up. “They wanted to surprise me, so when they found I was...occupied, they waited.”

“Please, please tell me that your whole guild wasn't out there while we—neither of us was particularly quiet!”

“I would love to be able to tell you that,” said Ezra apologetically. The horrible suspicion blossomed serenely into the full flower of mortification. “None of them speak Thalassian, though, so they don’t know what we said.”

“Aagh,” said Crowley, with feeling. “Alright, yes, I don't want to have to face any of them.” Alongside embarrassment, paranoia made itself known. “Is there any chance this is going to get back to your command?”

“Oh, none at all,” said Ezra. He sounded wholly confident. “Some guilds only work together, but we’re more like a family. Mhorduna vouched for you, and Maka too.” He took Crowley’s hands and went on, “But you may meet in battle, and in that case the less you know about each other the better.”

“Well, if it comes to that I'd rather know what they look like so I can be careful of them. Guild tabards aren't—as useful for me as for most people.” Symbols were just as difficult to make out as letters, and of course differences in colour were no help at all.

“Crowley, you’ve seen my guild tabard.”

“Right, right, I had plenty of time to examine it when you handed it to me all in a bundle in a dark alley,” said Crowley peevishly. “Even more out in the desert, right before you asked me to kill you.” Technically he’d seen it pretty clearly, but he had very little in the way of solid memory of that night and all of it was before he’d spotted Ezra.

Ezra’s face fell, but all he said was, “That’s easily solved, then.” He retrieved the tabard from the table and handed it over. Crowley took it by the shoulder seams and shook it out. He’d been able to tell that it was mostly black, but when the symbol was revealed he couldn’t help but laugh.

That it was Teldrassil was no surprise at all—at least, he assumed that the tree was meant to be Teldrassil; the shape was right. But it was woven into the surface with threads of a different sheen, in a different pattern; to Illidari it stood out sharply, but to normal sight it would be nearly invisible. Crowley had to admire Mhorduna; the man always went the extra mile to demonstrate that he wasn’t ashamed of what they’d done. “I suppose I’ll be able to recognise it at that,” he said.

Ezra began to reply, but from outside someone slapped the door with an open palm. “Speak a little louder and in Common, we’re trying to eavesdrop here!” said Makavi’s voice. Ezra shut his mouth with a snap that Crowley would have found comical under other circumstances. “We’ll be gone soon and you can come out. You two be good.” Ezra put his hands over his face. A different voice chimed in, “Or don’t. Enjoy yourself, master of tongues.” There was a duet of giggles.

Crowley had assumed that _master of tongues_ had something to do with Ezra’s ability with languages.

He crossed his arms and tipped his head back. “I am not going to kill your guildmates,” he said evenly, “but I’m going to think about it very hard.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Crowley spread a blanket out in the shade on the narrow strip of grass between a steep rock wall and the pond. It nestled between the garrison wall on the northwest and the high cliffs opposite. There was just enough room between the water and the cliffside for a narrow path, a few trees, and a small shack for storing fishing gear. No one but Ezra and Crowley inhabited the dead end on this particular day. “Are you going to fish, or are we just here to lounge about?” Crowley asked.

Ezra bent to pull the blanket half out into the sun. To his eyes its light was bright but a little blue, which he supposed explained the generally azure cast of the vegetation. “Lounge about,” he said. “You can lie in the sun. I know you love to.”

“Can’t help it, I’m required,” said Crowley, with some recovered cheer. “It’s right there in the instructions we get at birth.” He dropped onto the sunlit half of the blanket and looked up. “Read to me, then, I’m feeling lazy.”

Ezra sat in the shade and arranged himself with his back against the tree that cast it. “How can I read to you when you’re all the way over there?”

Crowley looked pointedly back and forth over the handspan gap between them and said, “Yes, that’s _quite_ a distance.”

“Indeed it is, and I’m already so well settled here...” He put on his best hopeful look.

Crowley made an exaggerated pout, but he also lay down and rested his head on Ezra’s thigh. “How’s that?”

Ezra had to smile. “Almost perfect,” he said. He’d learnt the art of turning pages one-handed years ago, which left him with one free to thread through Crowley’s hair. The garrison was a cage, no matter how gilded, but even a cage could have some pleasures. “My love is the willow in winter,” he read. “Let down thy hair, full leaf, that the dove might forsake my hollow chest, and in thy branches nest, and force it bloom…”

* * *

He discovered that he rather resented having to break to eat lunch. There was nothing wrong with the food, but time spent eating was time _not_ spent inducing Crowley to relax and occasionally drift nearly to sleep. Ezra felt as if he’d used to take time for granted, and now he couldn’t any longer. It was absurd; immortal soul or not, he wasn’t any more human now than he’d been before, and humans didn’t live forever. But he felt it nonetheless.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly, even when the sun dropped behind the cliff wall and took Crowley’s pool of light with it, but all too soon it began to get dark. Ezra had started to wonder whether he should say something about the time when Crowley sat up and stretched, which of course had to be appreciated.

“I should be going,” said Crowley, with obvious reluctance. “I need a few hours to sleep.”

“Of course,” Ezra replied. “But one kiss, my sun. Then I think I can bear to let you go.”

“There’s time for that. Even two,” said Crowley. He twisted where he sat to curl one hand around the back of Ezra’s neck.

It turned out to be more than one kiss, and more than two.

But the sun stops for no one, and when Crowley had vanished, Ezra picked up the blanket to fold it.

“Finally,” said Makavi, from down the path. Ezra jumped and turned to look at her. She was little but a darker silhouette in the gloaming. “You two were boring all day.” Behind her stood Siegrunë, openly laughing, her pale hair and luminescent eyes standing out like beacons.

“We weren’t bored,” said Ezra primly, and applied himself to the blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit of poetry Ezra reads is by our invaluable beta. What are Thalassian verse forms like? Your guess is as good as ours!


	30. Chapter 30

The weeks before Ezra’s meeting passed lazily—unless Crowley was there. Then time sped at a completely unreasonable rate. The visits weren’t consistent, in either spacing or length; he did manage to stay the night once, but only once wasn’t as much of a consolation as Ezra might have liked. He filled his solitary time with fishing, reading, and tending the herb garden, with the occasional minor injury to treat, and struck up acquaintances with a few of the draenei.

Visits from the guild were more sparse and shorter as well; Ezra assumed that the course of the war wasn’t smooth. He itched to go back, to help, surely there was somewhere behind the lines where he could safely work. But Mhorduna didn’t think so, and Ezra didn’t like to argue too strenuously, especially after what he’d promised Crowley.

Ezra had the laces of one bracer in the opposite hand and his mouth when his door’s room opened and an Illidar walked in—though again, it wasn’t the one he most wanted to see.

“You don’t need all that to go to Boralus,” said Mhorduna.

“I’m attempting to demonstrate that I’m taking this seriously,” Ezra mumbled. “Since you’re here, you can tie this for me.” He let go of the laces and held out his arm.

For a moment Mhorduna didn’t move. “Ezra, being here isn’t a punishment.”

Ezra’s lips thinned, which Mhorduna _probably_ couldn’t see. “Yes, boss.”

“The Horde is stepping up their incursions, especially on Boralus, and I don’t want you to end up in the middle of something in your state.” Mhorduna took the laces and started tightening them.

“Yes, boss,” Ezra repeated. As if he’d be taking more of a risk than any of the people who lived in the city, the regular folk who had never had immortal souls to begin with.

For a few seconds Mhorduna worked at tightening the bracer in silence. “The war won’t last forever,” he said.

“So people keep telling me. I’m sure that’s a great consolation to anyone who _dies_ in it.” Try though he might, Ezra couldn’t keep the bite out of his voice, and Mhorduna’s hands stilled for a moment before he pulled out the last of the slack.

“Are you sure you don’t want anyone to go to the meeting with you?” he asked as he tied off the laces in a neat bow.

Ezra had no great desire to start an argument, so he replied, “Quite sure. It’ll be dreadfully dull. I wouldn’t go myself if I weren’t required to.”

“Then I’ll wait in the portal room at sunset. Keep an eye out for the Archangels, especially Michael—she’s been sniffing around. She doesn’t like being told _no_.”

Ezra nodded.

* * *

Ezra revelled in Boralus, the sounds, sights, and smells he’d known since childhood. He found himself dawdling a bit on the walk to the meeting, enough that he might have been late if he hadn’t left Draenor earlier than planned. He couldn’t resist slowing down to enjoy the city.

The meeting itself was considerably less enjoyable, and every bit as boring as expected. What little business he had was dealt with easily, but he had to stay till nearly the end, to put his official imprimatur on the board’s major decisions. Ezra very rarely attempted to override the board; he had no business acumen. It was one of the reasons he’d devoted himself to his books and the Light, and one of the reasons he’d been allowed to. He only intervened when good business sense conflicted with good moral sense, and he had carefully chosen the board members to minimize such occurrences.

When at last the meeting wound down into discussion of details for which he wasn’t needed, Ezra excused himself. A few of the factors had the look in their eyes that generally led to long, earnest discussions of arcane business matters, and he felt that fleeing while the conversation was still heated was the better part of not actually expiring of ennui.

As Ezra stepped out into the street, the sun was still high enough that he thought he’d stop and have a drink before he went to meet Mhorduna. And possibly something to eat that hadn’t been cooked by a draenei; they had odd, if not actually distasteful, ideas of what constituted appropriate flavouring even for dishes they had adopted from Azeroth. He was terribly tempted to visit one of his favourite restaurants, a nameless place that served mostly fish, but doing so would have taken him quite a distance from the route between his meeting and the portal room near the docks. Feeling virtuous, he chose the _Dappled Mare,_ a tavern that required far less of a diversion.

By the time he’d finished eating his fried duck (served on a wooden skewer, with a lovely tangy fruit sauce), he had just enough time to make the rest of the trip and arrive on schedule. As reluctant as he was to return to the garrison, Ezra knew any delay would make Mhorduna worry. He left the _Mare_ feeling fortified by good food and had just rounded the corner from the tavern into the street—momentarily deserted by the vagaries of traffic—when something hit him from behind.

He didn’t have time to react, or to _think_ , before the darkness took him.

* * *

The sun had set, and Ezra hadn’t appeared.

Mhorduna paced back and forth outside the small stone hall that housed Boralus’ suite of portals. Tucked between and partially under its neighbors, there wasn’t much in the way of line-of-sight down which to stare, or at least there wasn’t for normal people. But no amount of looking through buildings produced an Ezra.

He was on the edge of leaving to raise the hunt when a small group of the Them turned into the cul-de-sac—Makavi, Siegrunë with her fingers buried in her wolf’s ruff, Dush and Gnoklu, the pandaren looking comically large next to the gnome. “Hey, boss, you back already? We were going to wait for you,” said Makavi. “We’re going drinking.”

“The Kul Tirans make excellent beer,” Dush rumbled. He was light on his feet, especially for such a big man; Mhorduna had been very skeptical of the lightly-armed monks’ utility at first, but once he’d seen Dush in action, a whirl of fur ducking out of the way of blows seemingly by accident, his opinion had readjusted itself.

But that was a distraction. “I’m not back because I didn’t leave,” said Mhorduna grimly. “Ezra hasn’t shown up. Maka, I need you to backtrack him, just in case he’s been delayed.” Or _distracted_ , which with Ezra was hardly impossible.

Suddenly serious, Makavi nodded. Mhorduna tried to watch her shapeshift, but as always he failed; one moment she was upright on two feet and the next, with no perceptible transition, she stood on four hooves. He always wondered what happened to her clothing and other accoutrements when she changed forms; when asked, she replied that they were there when she needed them, so who cared?

“I’ll go with you. Six eyes are better than two.” Makavi paused for just long enough to let Siegrunë vault onto her back and leapt away, her hooves clattering on the cobbles. Sieg’s wolf bounded after them.

“Shall I go alert the others?” asked Dush.

“We’re not sure yet that there’s anything wrong,” said Mhorduna reluctantly, but then his expression solidified into resolve. “Just in case I think you’d better.”

“I’ll go do a little asking around,” said Gnoklu. He preferred not to talk about his less-savoury connections, but he used them when needed.

“Yes, go,” Mhorduna replied. “But be discreet.”

Gnoklu said patiently, “I know a screwdriver from a wrench, boss.”

Mhorduna shrugged an apology.

Dush and Gnoklu departed; Mhorduna stayed where he was, cursing under his breath. He should have gone with his gut, should have sent someone to escort Ezra there and back; he’d been trying to demonstrate that he trusted Ezra to take care of himself. He’d let himself be lulled by the thought that there was only so much trouble Ezra could get into in the city where he’d been born and raised, that an obvious escort would raise too many questions.

But Elune didn’t care what one should have done, only what one _did_ , and Mhorduna was growing more convinced by the second that he’d made a terrible mistake.

All too soon Makavi returned, alone. “No good traces, boss,” she said, before she’d even come to a complete halt. “Sieg has Raka following a scent but it’s not easy in the city.”

“Fuck. Alright. I’ll come and help for as long as I can.” His sight could pick up signs normal people would miss, just as much as the opposite. “But I don’t have much time. I promised to meet Crowley once Ezra was back on Draenor.”

Makavi whistled, a bizarre effect from a person currently lacking proper lips. “I don’t envy you that,” she said.

* * *

Mhorduna was late, worryingly so, and Crowley couldn’t wait much longer; he’d been getting ready to come to the _Fel Hammer_ when Mirimë had announced an assignment. Technically he should’ve been at the muster already, and he’d drawn a few casually curious looks for hanging about the Illidari headquarters fully equipped and armed.

He weighed his hearthstones in his hand, trying to convince himself he had enough time to go to the garrison and check. Mhorduna could have been delayed by guild business, after all. Crowley gritted his teeth and looked up, and spotted Mhorduna at once.

The rush of relief was immediately drowned by the other man’s blatant agitation—blatant enough that Crowley could see it from across a large room. He tried to make himself believe that Mhorduna was only upset at having been late.

Except that the first words out of Mhorduna’s mouth were, “I’m sorry, brother.”

“I know guilds can be a handful,” said Crowley, clinging to the last shred of denial.

Mhorduna shook his head, and the last shred dissolved. “We’ve lost Ezra.”

“Lost him, what do you mean _lost_ him?”

“He didn’t make our rendezvous,” said Mhorduna. “We know he left his factors’ table, with plenty of time to spare, and we tracked him to the _Dappled Mare_ but the staff said he’d left there too. When I left to come here, Maka was on the way to his library.”

Crowley swallowed. The library, of course. Surely Ezra had gone to check _just one thing_ and lost track of time. That had to be it. That _had_ to be—Mhorduna’s hand on his arm nearly made him jump.

“You’re heading into a fight. Focus on that. We’ll find him, I promise, and you can yell at him, as soon as I’m done. In the meantime, mind on your mission.”

Crowley fought down the urge to snarl; whatever happened, it wasn’t Mhorduna’s fault. Still, he could hear how taut his own voice had gone. “Mind on my mission, of course. Piece of pie.”

“I know it isn’t, but I don’t want to have to explain to him that you got discorporated worrying about him.” Mhorduna shrugged. “But I decided it wouldn’t have been a kindness to leave you with no news at all.”

“You’re right, I suppose,” said Crowley, with all the sincerity he could muster. He had a feeling it wasn’t much. “Thank you for coming.”

Mhorduna started to speak, broke off, and finally said, “Be careful.”

Crowley nodded, hearing the ghost of _Mind how you go_ as he rolled his hearthstone in his hands. “I will,” he said, and the stone took him away.

By the time he got to the muster the first fighters were already stepping through the portals. “What the hell, Crowley?” Mirimë snapped as he hurried up to her. “It’s not like you to be this scattered.”

“I—don’t think I can explain.” She’d understand part of it, but not the part where Ezra was a bluecoat.

Mirimë breathed out in exasperation. “Right, fine, you’re meatshield for Droxi, but I need you to get hold of yourself, got it?”

“Yeah, I will, I’m sorry,” he said, and went in search of Droxi.

* * *

The potion he’d bought from the grey-market alchemist, Hastur thought as he arranged the rope, had been worth every damned copper.

He was the first to admit that information-gathering wasn’t his strength; that had been Ligur’s specialty. So he’d spent the last few weeks following Crawly to Dalaran and watching him vanish into a room at the Legerdemain Lounge, not to be seen again until he was back in Dazar’alor. Obviously he was using the inn as a waypoint to get _somewhere_ , but there wasn’t any way to tell where.

It had been on one of those frustrating expeditions, however, that a human-looking woman had dropped a note for him, nothing but a place and a time. Hastur had armed himself heavily, bought the potion that would allow him to use Common, and gone to meet her—only to discover she was worgen rather than human, the Archangel Michael. Their conversation had been short, but very enlightening.

Hastur paused to survey his work and tightened a knot with a sharp yank.

Michael had said she didn’t know where the priest's guild had hidden him, but she _had_ known that he was going to come back to Boralus. More than that she’d been willing to...facilitate. A living person might have had trouble with the wait, but Hastur did not need to eat or drink, sleep or breathe, and with a little bit of Archangelic intervention to shield against accidental discovery, he’d spent a long day hidden in a shadowy corner waiting. The time had passed very pleasantly, in contemplation of how much their toy was going to scream, and how much the freak would suffer to hear it. It would be over too quickly for real revenge, but Hastur expected he’d be able to push Crawly into doing something _unwise_.

The priest finally began to regain consciousness as Hastur tied off the rope. Perhaps he’d gone a bit overboard with the elaborate pattern of loops and knots binding their toy into the chair, but Ligur had always enjoyed that sort of thing and Hastur felt it was fitting. Besides, the priest was Kul Tiran, if not a sailor himself, and good with knots; during their playtime he’d nearly managed to free himself once.

Hastur took a silent step back to enjoy their pet’s confusion and mounting fear. After a few moments of struggling the golden strand running through the rope flared and faded as the priest tried to call on his magic.

“No use,” Hastur said. The priest squeaked in alarm. Disgusting, how _soft_ he was. Hastur circled him, and made no effort to keep the satisfied smile off his face. “You remember this rope, don’t you?” He obviously did; Hastur could all but taste the panic. “Your tricks won’t work.”

Their toy tried to speak around the gag. Hastur shook his head in mock disappointment. “You don’t look like you’re enjoying this, pet. You’re going to be the star of the show. Look, everything’s ready.” The priest’s eyes got a fraction wider and Hastur watched him finally take in his surroundings.

The house had been abandoned for perhaps a few years; the chair in which he’d sat the priest was the only one relatively whole. Hastur had moved all the other debris into the front room, to make entry more difficult, and had piled fuel against the walls—dry fuel, because he didn’t want their toy to die of the smoke before he _burned_.

“Well, it’s no matter. I’m sure you’ll get your lines right.” He heaved a sigh. “It’s a pity we won’t have time to play properly. Don’t worry, I’ll find you when you’re back.”

Entertaining though it would have been to tease their pet a little more, Hastur decided he needed to be going. The attack would begin soon, and he had to make sure the freak knew exactly what was happening, with as many witnesses as possible. He approached the priest, savouring his attempts to flinch away, and leant over him to undo the knot in the gag. “There. Make sure to scream as loud as you can, pet, so Crawly’s sure to get the message. He’s a little slow.”

The priest froze. Hastur dropped the gag into his lap and turned away, laughing. As he went he pulled his matches from his pocket, striking and dropping one with every step.

Flame ran along the lines of oil he had laid to the dry wood.

* * *

When he spotted her, Droxi had her arms crossed and her foot tapping, but she took one look at him and her posture relaxed. “What’s up, kiddo? You look like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

Crowley glanced around but no one was paying them any attention. He lowered his voice anyway. “Ezra’s missing.”

“Shit,” said Droxi. “That’s no good.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“We’re on cleanup.”

Crowley groaned. “Just what I needed, time to _think_ ,” he said.

Droxi patted his hand. He wished it made him feel better.

* * *

Once Hastur was out of sight, Ezra managed to wrestle himself down to something resembling control. He had to get himself out before Crowley could come looking and be caught in the fire as well—or worse, be _spotted_. Ezra had no doubt Hastur planned to break the news in the most public way possible, and if the architecture were anything to go by this was Kul Tiras; a Horde attack, then, meaning any number of witnesses who couldn’t be accused of bias beyond that which Crowley attracted merely by being Illidari.

Ezra coughed, and twisted his hands behind him; they were wet, with sweat or blood, but the knots held good and he couldn’t get free. Bait, yet again bait, and this time for _Crowley_. He had to get out. The flames had left the tracks of the oil and were spreading slowly across the floorboards; fire climbed up the walls in columns and pooled on the ceiling like water poured onto a plate.

His blood pounded in his ears, louder than the rising crackle of the flames. The heat rose as well, and the air grew thick with smoke. It would be clearer near the floor; he seized upon the thought and threw himself to the side as violently as he could. The chair didn’t go over, but one leg gave an encouraging crack and Ezra repeated the movement. He crashed to the floor.

For a moment he lay there, equal parts triumphant and dazed by the impact. The air _was_ more breathable, and even better breaking the chair had loosened something; he groped along the rope, searching for a knot.

But _more breathable_ didn’t mean _good_ , and Ezra could feel his dexterity slipping away, running out like water from a leaky pot. He knew that not all of the tears he was shedding were due to the stinging smoke, but he couldn’t worry about that, not if he wanted to live through this.

In the ceiling something popped and spat embers in all directions like miniature fireballs; one struck Ezra high on his left cheek, a finger’s breadth from his eye, and the sudden pain made him shriek. He shook his head frantically and the ember fell away. He’d lost his grip on the rope and had to hunt for it again.

The shadows shouted at him, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying, the magical dampening woven into the rope muffling them. Ezra’s breath came faster and faster and his fingers fumbled uselessly as black spots swam before his eyes.

Just before his senses deserted him entirely he saw a flash of red.

* * *

Of course, after all the hurry to get to Stormsong Valley, once they were there nothing happened for most of an hour. There wasn’t room for everyone within the notional boundaries of the hidden outpost, so Crowley and Droxi waited under the trees outside. She tried to make conversation but gave up after the third time he snapped at her, and the minutes crawled like years.

“Crawly,” said Hastur, from far too close to his back, and Crowley spun to face him. Hastur wasn’t doing anything threatening—except existing—but the expression on his face made dread climb up Crowley’s spine. “Looking for something?”

“What,” said Crowley. Hastur’s smile only widened. He held up one hand.

Two lengths of ribbon, decorated with metal balls at the ends, dangled from his fingers.

“Did you freaks ‘sacrifice’ your brains along with your souls? I _asked_ you if you were looking for something. A toy, maybe. A _pet_.”

For a long, frozen moment Crowley tried to convince himself he wasn’t hearing correctly, but he couldn’t afford to assume Hastur was lying. “Where is he?”

Without looking, Hastur gestured down the slope. A house stood at the bottom, light glowing in its windows—too much light, too much _fire_. “Guess,” said Hastur. He dropped the hair ties and placed his hands, as if casually, on the hilts of his daggers.

“No,” said Crowley, his voice strengthless. There were no fewer than a dozen Horde fighters within sight of this spot, and nearly a hundred within shouting range, and no way at all to get to the burning house, get to _Ezra_ , without being spotted.

At his side Droxi said urgently, “Crowley, you can’t,” but he only barely heard her. He took an involuntary step downslope but suddenly Hastur was there, crowding him back.

“Not yet, freak. Not until you’re done listening to him die,” Hastur snarled.

He could hear the wind-rush noise of the fire now—and then, barely audible, a scream, bitten short.

Crowley faked a dodge, reversed direction when Hastur was taken in, ran three quick strides and turned back to throw a glaive at the Forsaken’s head. He wasn’t aiming to hit, only to force Hastur to dive out of the way, and it gave him all the time he needed to turn and run.

It took forever to reach the house. The heat mounted quickly from noticeable to unpleasant to unbearable but that didn’t matter; all that mattered was getting inside. There was no clear path and beneath his yammering panic Crowley wasn’t surprised. Hastur would have made sure of it. He took more than one burn forcing his way through the door, the wood smoking under his hands.

“Ezra!” Crowley shouted. He could barely hear himself over the roar of the fire. “Ezra, Light _bless_ it, where are you!” Cinders fell from the ceiling into his hair. He threw his arms over his head.

A crash behind him made him spin and a frostbolt struck him full in the chest; he slammed into the floor hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs. He flailed to his hands and knees, and suddenly there were hands on him, grabbing for his arms.

Two paladins, shimmering in the bubbles of their holy shields, yanked him to his feet. “No, no, you bastards, you _bastards_ , _let me go_!” There were only two of them; he should have been able to break free. But he couldn’t think, and the frost in his limbs slowed him, and they hauled him back the way he had come. As they left the veranda, a ceiling beam crashed down inside.

Crowley let the paladins lead him away.

There was no reason not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we play Spot the Gratuitous Romantic Poetry Reference!
> 
>  **Hastur's potion:** So _in theory_ Forsaken, as former residents of Lordaeron, should speak Common just like people from Stormwind, Gilneas, or Kul Tiras. However, when the game was launched Blizzard wanted there to be no language crossover whatsoever, and decided that Forsaken had gotten somewhat addled by their change to undead; they spoke Orcish and the ludicrously-named "Gutterspeak". I cannot roll my eyes hard enough. We, therefore, are just glossing right on over what language Hastur spoke when he was alive...
> 
> There is an alchemist in Dalaran's Underbelly who will sell you a moderately expensive potion that allows you to speak and understand the other faction's common language for an hour.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: abuse of a prisoner, self-destructive behaviour and thoughts, non-explicit threat of rape against a person not present. In the final section, beginning "It had been something between three days and a fortnight..."; there is a summary of that section in the endnotes.

When the paladins marched Crowley back into the Horde ranks, for just a moment Droxi was relieved; he wasn’t discorporated, at least. Then she got a good look at him, and relief curdled into horror. She’d seen corpses that looked more lively, and not only Forsaken.

“It seems we have ourselves a traitor,” said Hastur loudly, his voice full of loathsome satisfaction. “Attacking his own to save a bluecoat.” _You’re not his own_ , Droxi thought fiercely.

But people murmured, and most of it sounded like agreement. The tauren paladin looked around and shook his massive head. “Nothing is proven yet,” he said. “An’she’s Light will reveal the truth.” He and the troll on Crowley’s other arm began to lead him up into the outpost.

“Hold up!” Droxi called, and hustled over to the trio when they paused. The paladins looked down at her curiously; Crowley did not. She’d have bet a hell of a lot of money that he didn’t even notice she was there. “He’s got an amulet,” she said. “Don’t know what it does but we shouldn’t let him keep it. Over here, I can get it.” She boosted herself onto a handy rock and raised her eyebrows expectantly. After a moment’s puzzled pause, the paladins guided Crowley over to her.

The rock gave her enough height to reach the cord Crowley’s coin hung from and she cut it with a neat flick of her dagger. She hated to deprive him of the coin but the odds were excellent someone else would take it if she didn’t. She pocketed it matter-of-factly before either of the paladins could think to ask for it.

“You are his friend?” the troll asked. She sounded disapproving.

“Guildie,” Droxi said with a shrug. “They got their uses, you know?”

At the sound of her voice Crowley shuddered and raised his head. It wasn’t always easy to tell which way he was looking, but she was pretty damn sure that in this case it wasn’t _at her._ “He’s gone,” he said, his voice empty of anything beyond the meaning of the words.

 _Oh, **shit**_ , Droxi thought.

* * *

Siegrunë slid cautiously through a copse, fuming. It was just like the damned Horde to attack at the worst possible time; she and the rest of the guild should have been searching for Ezra. Instead she was patrolling the edges of the fighting, watching for Horde fighters trying to flank the main formation. Mhorduna had had to send people when he’d been asked for them, but Siegrunë resented the necessity. She’d never seen Mhorduna so worried.

Ahead of her a twig snapped and she froze, melting into the shadow of the nearest tree. Raka crouched at her feet, tension in his legs as he readied himself to spring if ordered. A figure, oddly shaped, moved through the trees. It passed across a clear line of sight and Elune revealed a slender person in armour the colour of blood that had begun to dry, carrying another person in their arms. Warglaives stretched up over their shoulders.

Siegrunë waited as the Illidar laid their burden at the base of a tree, arranged its limbs into a comfortable position, and glided back the way they had come...much more quietly, now that they weren’t hefting their own body weight or more. Siegrunë counted to three hundred, taking in what she could; the unconscious person had short hair of the odd pale colour called ‘blond’, and wore a spellcaster’s long robes over a heavyset form.

When the count was done and she could be reasonably confident that the Hordie wasn’t coming back, she went to check. Raka whuffed as they approached and Siegrunë glanced at him—that was a happy sound, a greeting-a-member-of-the-pack sound. Then she knelt at the unconscious person’s side and turned their face carefully to the light, and gasped.

Ezra’s face and clothing were covered in soot and cinders; a constellation of pinprick holes had been singed into his robes, and a burn, almost perfectly square, marred his left cheek. But it _was_ Ezra, his breathing regular if laboured. How, Siegrunë had no idea. _Why was a Hordie helping him?_ No time to wonder.

“Raka, fetch Alicia,” she ordered. He yipped in acknowledgement and galloped away.

* * *

It wasn’t easy to completely restrain the Illidari, but methods had been developed.

Crowley drifted back to awareness of the outside world sitting shackled in a storage room of the small outpost, to the sound of Mirimë’s voice outside, trying to get in to speak to him. In the tiny part of his mind that wasn’t wailing grief he appreciated the effort.

Eventually the door opened. He reflexively tried to look but the hood that kept him from using his eyes also blocked his vision. Hands fell on his arms, and a voice he didn’t recognise said, “Get up.” He did. There was no reason not to.

To their credit, the people who walked him out of the storage room to a portal weren’t rough about it, though it wouldn’t have mattered to him if they had been. On the other side of the portal he was accosted by the sounds of Dazar’alor, voices speaking in Zandali and the parrots calling in the trees to greet the dawn. He stayed there only long enough to reach the room high in the city that housed the permanent portal to Orgrimmar. Crowley went where he was guided, and tried to breathe.

* * *

The shitshow lasted nearly as long as the attack, and when it was over Droxi dragged herself back to the quarters she shared with Garnek and the kids. He was awake already—she’d never been sure how she’d managed to marry a _morning person_ —and as soon as she was in the door she threw her arms around his neck.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, startled. His arms came up to wrap around her in return.

“I’ll give you the details once I get some rest, but it boils down to one of my guildies being in deep, deep shit,” she said. Garnek had met Crowley, and liked him reasonably well.

He bustled her off to bed, and Droxi went, but once she was lying down her thoughts refused to settle. She wasn’t sure if she’d slept, or how much time had passed, when Garnek came in. “Sweetheart, are you awake?” he asked softly.

Droxi rolled over. “To my eternal regret.”

“One of your guildmates is here, she wants to talk to you.”

“Ugh,” she said, sitting up. “Did she say what about?”

“No, but I’ll bet I can guess.”

“Yeah,” Droxi said morosely. “Okay. Be right out.”

Garnek leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll tell her.”

Droxi took a second to wash her face before she went out to the main room. Celebiriel stood in the center of it, looking thunderous, and Droxi said, “Seems like this needs to be a private convo?” The demon hunter nodded.

Droxi led her to the sitting room and closed the door. “Okay, what’s up?” Droxi asked.

“Crowley’s priest,” Celebiriel said, and Droxi winced.

“He’s dead,” she said. “Really dead, I’m pretty sure, there was something—”

But Celebiriel shook her head. “He’s not.”

Droxi blinked at her in surprise. “How do you know?”

“I got him out of Hastur’s fucking death-trap,” Celebiriel said. “ _Without_ being seen, unlike certain other people.” Despite herself Droxi laughed, as much from relief as actual humor—though relief was probably unwarranted; even if the priest was still alive, _Crowley_ didn’t know that. “Froggie forgot there’s more than one way into a building, evidently, and everyone was paying attention to Crowley being dramatic out front. I left him for the Allies to find. He wasn’t in good shape, but he was alive last I saw him.”

Droxi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Even aside from the personal connection, being burned alive was no way to go. Something had to be done about Hastur, and the rest of the Fallen if at all possible. That, however, was a problem for _later_. “This is...yeah, I don’t even know. I think I can get a message to him at least, let him know what’s happened to Crowley.”

Celebiriel sighed and sat heavily in the room’s lone big-person chair. “I don't like this, but there’s nothing to be done about it. It’s not as if Crowley can change his mind.”

Droxi laughed again, a little more sincerely, and said, “I mean seriously, have you seen them together? It’s like their eyes turn into little hearts. Their own private Love in the Air, it’s sickening.”

“I did once, but not up close,” Cele said. She sounded a little gloomy and Droxi thought it would probably be better to not ask.

“We can’t do anything,” she said instead. “Have you talked to Miri? She’s workin’ on it through channels but I don’t know what good that’s gonna do. About a million people saw him attack Hastur.”

Celebiriel shrugged. “We can’t. Maybe the Allies can.”

“Sister, I like the way you think. The priest’s got a guild, they might be willing to help.”

“Fucking Archangels,” Celebiriel said. “Bunch of bloodthirsty lunatics.”

“He’s not with the Archangels,” Droxi said, surprised. “I met him, he’s not their type.”

“He was with them in Dazar’alor,” Celebiriel said.

“Huh. Well, Crowley said something about him swapping guilds and then going back to the one he started in. I saw him in a bluecoat attack six, seven months ago and he definitely wasn’t in the Archangels’ tabard. Theirs is white and gold and the one he had on looked all black.” She was pretty sure it hadn’t only been an effect of the iffy lighting.

Cele sat up straight and snapped her fingers. “ _That_ explains it. There’s an Allied guild with a tabard we can see, I think their guildmaster’s Illidari.” She waved a hand at her own eyes and Droxi nodded. “I saw a couple of them when we were withdrawing in Dazar’alor, and I think they’re the ones who hid Crowley’s body. If his priest is with them, that’s why they care.”

“Makes sense.” Droxi rubbed her hands together. “Okay. I gotta get some sleep and then I’ll see about getting a message to the priest.” Nothing was going to happen to Crowley in the next six hours; she had time to rest up.

“Can we get a message to Crowley?”

“Don’t think we should risk it,” Droxi said reluctantly. “Ain’t gonna do him any good if we end up in the next cell for collaborating with a traitor.”

From the look on her face Cele wasn’t any happier about leaving him in ignorance, but all she said was, “I guess you’re right.”

* * *

Droxi had to ask for the location of the Fallwaters’ shop in Dalaran; she had noticed it in passing once or twice, but she didn’t feel like wasting time searching. It sold enchanted cloth goods, including some very nice flying carpets, and in other circumstances she’d have been tempted to engage in a serious browse.

Time for that later. The shopkeeper appeared to be aware that their customers might be normal-sized people, so there was a platform provided at the counter; Droxi stepped onto it. “I got a question that’s a little weird,” she said.

The clerk’s eyebrows went up. “I’ll do what I can, ma’am.”

Droxi shuddered. “Don’t call me that, makes me feel old. OK, so, I got a message that needs to go to the guy who runs the company you work for. Ezra's his personal name. Can you help me with that? I know it's a lot to ask.”

The clerk started to demur, which wasn’t surprising, but then she stopped mid-sentence, blinked, and in a far less professionally-measured voice said, “Let me go get the owner for you.”

The owner turned out to be a human man who looked a little harried; Droxi got the feeling he’d been in the middle of something. When she repeated her request, however, his demeanour changed instantly.

“I can forward a message, yes,” he said. “In the meantime, why don’t you look around and see if there’s anything you’d like. On the house.”

Droxi was more than a little tempted, but it had to be tough trying to run a business in Dalaran these days. “Appreciate it, but if you can get this to the priest that’s all I need.” She held out the little pouch that contained Crowley’s coin and a short letter.

“I insist,” the owner said as he took it. “You’ve met Master Ezra, you know how he is about his friends, and besides...it’s not for entirely unselfish reasons. It will look better if you leave with a package.”

Well, if he was going to insist. “Make sure he gets this, okay? It’s important.”

“Of course,” he said. “Alright, Naielle, I’ll have to finish up my inventory later. In the meantime, charge whatever this lady picks out against Master Ezra’s account.”

The clerk nodded.

“Thanks,” Droxi said, and hopped down to take a closer look at what was on offer.

* * *

Crowley had learnt the dimensions of his cell with his hands. His gaolers had swapped out the hood for a sort of reinforced blindfold that rendered even his odd half-sight useless. It was remarkably disconcerting.

Which he assumed was the point.

He didn’t have a lot of room to move, but he didn’t need a lot; he spent almost all his time lying on the inadequate sleeping platform built into one wall. It was cleverly designed to be a bit too far off the floor for a goblin, a bit too short for a tauren, and much too hard for anyone. Simple bread and water arrived at reasonably regular intervals; he ate—he’d promised he would eat—but didn’t bother counting the meals. He wondered if someone was trying to deliver a message by ignoring him, but the question couldn’t hold his attention for very long because every thought led back to one.

It was disconcerting to be functionally blind, and Ezra was dead.

His cell was small, and Ezra was dead.

He’d lost track of how long he’d been here almost immediately, and Ezra was dead.

The chain joining the heavy shackles on his wrists prevented him from moving his hands more than about a cubit apart, and Ezra was dead.

The strap that held the blindfold was tight enough to ache, and Ezra was dead.

He didn’t know what had happened to his coin, and Ezra was dead.

And, of course, it was his fault that Ezra was dead.

Hastur wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t been important to Crowley. Without Ligur egging him on Hastur would have forgotten Ezra soon enough. _Crowley_ had made him a target, and Crowley had given Hastur the evidence he needed to link them, and Ezra was dead.

And it was Crowley’s fault.

He didn’t cry, his wretched parody of crying; the place where he could have allowed himself that release was so far above his head he couldn’t see it from here. If he started crying, tears or no tears, he wouldn’t ever stop.

* * *

It had been something between three days and a fortnight when the sound of keys in the lock drew Crowley out of a blissfully unthinking doze. He felt his muscles tense in reflex, but of course there was no one to protect anymore and the worst had already happened so what did it matter that he had his back to the door?

There was a long pause, no doubt intended to make him apprehensive. It might even be working on some level. He didn’t move.

“Nice place you have here, Crawly,” said Hastur, his voice full of malignant glee. There was a rustle of movement and when he spoke again he was looming over the bed. “You’re pathetic. All of this for a pet, a toy. Do you think he’d do it for you, freak? He hates you by now. He burnt to death and it’s your fault.” Thank anything that was listening, Crowley didn’t flinch. “I’ll make him hate you even more. When we’re done with you I’ll track him down again and tell him all about it. I’ll demonstrate. He won’t die until he curses your name.”

 _He already did, he must have_. “Fuck off, Hastur,” said Crowley dully. He didn’t sit up, or roll over. _Fuck off_ took up pretty much what motivation he had.

“Now there’s an idea. That too. Just to spite you.”

It was of course an empty threat, because you can’t hurt one of the ever-dead, but Hastur didn’t know that applied. “Bring me something I can get drunk on and I’ll listen to you threaten him all day long.”

Hastur brought his fist down in a hammer-strike that landed just below Crowley’s short ribs, driving his breath out on a burning wave. “You don’t get to make bargains. If you want something you can _beg_ for it. Like your soft little pet begged to be allowed to die. Think about that while you rot.” He turned away.

“You’re a monster.” Crowley still couldn’t muster the energy to actually move, but he could hear a bit more animation in his voice. “Ligur was a monster. Neither of you should be allowed to live.”

He didn’t manage to make sense of the rush of noise until Hastur had yanked him off the bed to crash onto the floor. “I told you not to speak his name, filth,” Hastur snarled and the blows rained down.

Instinct rather than will curled Crowley into a ball to protect his face and stomach, but he didn’t otherwise do anything to mitigate the attack, and soon enough—much sooner than he’d have liked—Hastur got bored of kicking him. His back from the shoulderblades down felt like one massive bruise and that would have to do.

Before he left, Hastur hauled Crowley to his knees by the chain between his wrists and the front of his tunic, and bent close enough that Crowley could smell his decaying breath. “I’ll make you beg for death, Crawly, just like your pet did. Your fate will be whispered by mothers in dark places to frighten their young.”

Crowley hung there in silence until Hastur made a disgusted noise and dropped him. He lay on the floor until the door had closed and locked, and then for a long while after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Siegrunë hiding:** Night elves can 'shadowmeld', hiding in plain sight as long as they stay still. It's like rogue or cat-form druid stealth except that if they move the effect is broken. Illidari sight being what it is, Celebiriel might still have been able to spot her if she'd known to look.
> 
>  **Summary:** Hastur enters Crowley's cell, taunts him with threats to Ezra, and beats him for mentioning Ligur. Crowley is not badly hurt but doesn't fight back because he thinks he deserves it.


	32. Chapter 32

Makavi didn’t know quite how everything had gone pear-shaped in the fifteen minutes she’d been out of the room, but when she returned to the main hall half the guild was clustered outside it, all of them looking various degrees of unnerved—even Dush, whose equanimity was a minor legend. She had her mouth open to ask what in the world was going on when Ezra’s voice rose from inside. “Give them _back_ , I need them, I have to _go_!”

“Give what back?” she muttered, as Mhorduna protested that Ezra needed to calm down.

In the same low tone Alicia replied, “His hearthstones. He got a message about the blood elf and it—isn’t good.”

“You have no right to keep me here,” Ezra shouted. “They’ll kill him, don’t you understand that?”

Which at least implied that Crowley wasn’t dead _yet_. From the sound of things, Mhorduna could use some backup; Makavi nudged Novanne aside and stepped quietly into the main hall.

“You’re not going anywhere until you get yourself under control.” Mhorduna faced mostly away from her, his hands on Ezra’s arms in an attempt at restraint, complicated by the fact that he was trying not to either hurt Ezra or allow Ezra to hurt him.

Mhorduna facing away meant that Ezra saw her first. “Control?” His voice held weird echoes. “I’ll show you control.”

Makavi had a moment for alarm at the shadows in his eyes before calm descended. Slipping into her bear-skin seemed the only reasonable thing to do, and Mhorduna was sufficiently distracted by trying to hold onto Ezra that she could easily use her increased bulk to knock him away from Ezra and to the floor—carefully. She didn’t want to hurt him. She stood over him with one paw heavy in the center of his chest; he wouldn’t make it out unless he was willing to eye-blast her, and Makavi was quite sure he wasn’t.

Ezra knelt and yanked open Mhorduna’s belt pouch, which jolted Mhorduna’s wits and he said, “Ezra, at least make a plan first! You can’t just go charging into Orgrimmar alone, you’ll _both_ end up dead if you try.”

Orgrimmar? Thaaat didn’t sound good. Ezra paused in his ransacking of Mhorduna’s belt pouch and bit his lip, and suddenly Makavi realised what she was doing. She jerked away from Mhorduna, falling back into her elf-skin as she went, and turned her angry gaze on Ezra. Whose face crumpled as he collapsed to sit on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice wavering. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I—you’ve heard the stories, I can’t just _leave him_. They’ll kill him, Mhorduna, but first—they think he’s a traitor. And Sylvanas…”

Makavi didn’t believe everything she heard about the Horde, but even discarding the rumours that were obvious propaganda left a number of extremely unpleasant possibilities. She looked at Mhorduna and shrugged. Mhorduna sat up. “You can’t go alone, and you can’t go without a plan,” he said.

“I can’t just leave him,” Ezra repeated, misery written in every line of his body.

“We’re not going to leave him,” said Mhorduna calmly. Ezra gaped at him. “You’re one of us, and that means he is too.”

* * *

Hastur came back, some number of meals later, but his second visit wasn’t much longer than the first. Crowley supposed he wasn’t sufficiently entertaining.

He had no illusions about his own stoicism; he _could_ be tortured into begging for it to stop, just as much as anyone else. But Hastur would have had to risk discorporating him to do it, and then the public execution couldn’t happen. Crowley expected it to be prolonged, spectacular, humiliating, and extremely painful, and Hastur had enough self-control to wait for the main course even if he couldn’t resist an appetizer.

Crowley wanted, very distantly, to goad Hastur on, but his dull wits wouldn’t produce insults suited to the task and he didn’t care enough about the pain to do much more than grunt at particularly hard blows.

Other than that, he waited.

The bruises helped, for as long as they lasted; physical pain had an immediacy that sometimes allowed him to focus on it instead of all the Everything Else. But it didn’t always work, and the effect only diminished with time. Crowley slept as much as he could and wondered if he was ever going to manage to get angry. He’d have liked to be angry, or even afraid, but the constant litany in his head drowned everything else, _oh priest, I'm sorry, my love, my light, please forgive me, please come back, please_ , and he couldn’t think around it.

The first time he’d lost everything, Crowley had wanted revenge. This time, he just wanted to _stop_.

* * *

They couldn’t take everyone, no matter how much they wanted to. Most of the guild had to stay in Boralus, going on with the war effort and covering for the rest. The group they ended up deciding upon was much smaller than anybody liked: Ezra and Mhorduna, Siegrunë, Makavi, and Dush, Novanne to get them in and Deorid to get them out, and Gnoklu to open doors.

Ezra supposed a small group at least had the advantage of speed.

A fortnight after the disastrous night in Stormsong Valley, Novanne walked into Orgrimmar with an Orb of Deception in her pocket. They’d decided on making her a troll, as closest in build to her human form; the less the magic item had to change, the less likely someone would notice flaws in the illusion. Gnoklu and Makavi accompanied her, both of them invisible to normal sight, to assist in the ritual of summoning.

They had chosen the late afternoon as a time of day both unexpected for a prison break and slightly less busy; the Valley of Strength baked in the sun when the remainder of the group materialised in it, as close as they could get to the entrance to Orgrimmar’s prison. Ezra was far too anxious to notice much more than towering cliffs and a vague impression of sturdy orcish architecture. He thought that under other circumstances he might have been disappointed to see so little of the Horde’s capital city, but in this case he wished desperately that the prison complex, buried in the caves, were not so well-warded. If all they’d had to do was get a hearthstone to Crowley, all this would have been much simpler.

Novanne shimmered away on her own hearthstone once the exhausting ritual was complete, and the rest of them went on. The guards’ door opened to Ezra calling through it in Orcish, and the irate guard fell to Gnoklu’s sleep-powder in her face.

Getting through the upper part of the prison was easy enough; the Them’s biggest impediment was that they didn’t want to kill anyone if they didn’t absolutely have to. Day-to-day guards were unlikely to be immortal souls. Gnoklu got almost everyone with his sleep-powder and the one exception decided he’d rather be quietly tied up than take a knock to the head.

The only way to reach the cells proper was a lift, slow and creaking. Ezra didn’t care for it, being long past the age of sneaking onto cargo-loading cranes at the docks for a free ride, and no one else seemed much happier. Maka in particular glared at the platform as if she expected it to attack.

As they neared the bottom, someone called, “What’s going on up there?”

“Everything's perfectly alright, we’re all fine, thank you,” Ezra replied. “Er...how are you?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he winced, but at least it seemed to baffle the guard just as much; the Forsaken stood staring quizzically for a crucial second even after the Them entered her field of view. Dush vaulted off the platform before it reached the floor, ducked a wild punch, grabbed the woman’s wrist, and swung her into a lock by the leverage of it.

“I can’t sleep her, she doesn’t have to breathe,” said Gnoklu as the rest of them disembarked.

“I’ll tie her up,” said Siegrunë, and moved to do it. The guard said nothing, though the expression on her face could have curdled milk.

Corridors lined with cells radiated from the central guardroom. Ezra stood next to the table the guard had been sitting at, completely failing to stop himself wringing his hands, as Mhorduna made a quick survey, his eyes glowing through his blindfold. In the third hall he stopped and waved Gnoklu over to a door. The gnome popped the lock with the casual ease of long practise, and stepped back. The plan stated that only Ezra should enter the cell.

He pushed the door open and the light of the hall’s torches fell on Crowley.

He sat on the low platform that served as a bed, one knee drawn up so he could rest his head on his forearm. His other hand dangled from a short chain, and another length of chain coiled beside him, running to a ring in the wall. Something covered his eyes, not his blindfold, and Ezra’s hand went to his mouth as he realised its purpose; this was why Mhorduna had told him he needed to bring one of Crowley’s blindfolds. To block the power Illidari could release from their eyes, it would have to block his vision too. Crowley had been sitting in the cell _blinded_ for more than two weeks.

“Thought I told you to fuck off,” said Crowley. He sounded utterly unlike himself, dull and drained. Ezra didn’t quite manage to swallow a shocked sob.

* * *

It hadn’t been long enough since the last time they brought him food, so the door opening had to be Hastur, back for another try. He couldn’t make himself sound sharp; the words alone would have to do. Hastur made an odd, choked noise and spoke.

But wasn’t Hastur’s voice, the croak that had earned him his nickname. It was Ezra’s.

“Oh, my sun. It’s me,” he said, and really, Crowley should have expected something like this. It was only surprising that it had taken him this long—however long it had been—to start imagining.

“I’m so sorry, priest,” he said. It wasn’t going to do any good to apologise to his own hallucination, but he couldn’t help it.

“Give me your hands, dearest, we need to take those off,” said ‘Ezra’. Crowley could have wept at the perfect simulation of Ezra’s voice, but he shifted enough to present his wrists to the empty air—and jumped in surprise when they were touched. He’d always known he had a good imagination, but this was much more detail than even he usually managed.

It was really very convincing, a few seconds of work with a lockpick, or more likely an enchanted master key, and then the weight of the shackles seemed to fall away. Maybe he’d fallen asleep, maybe he was dreaming. It was atypical if so; this Ezra breathed as if he didn’t want Crowley to know he was crying. All the other times, he had been angry. “It’s my fault. He did it for revenge on me.”

“It’s _not_ your fault,” said Ezra fiercely. Imaginary hands urged Crowley forward and he went where he was bidden, leaning into Ezra’s solid chest. He forced himself not to reach for nothing. “It’s Hastur’s, and mine. You’re always telling me to look behind me.” Fingers moved at the back of his head.

He had not managed to work out how the blindfold was fastened, but it didn’t matter; all this would fade. Ezra’s voice, trying to comfort him; Ezra’s warmth on his skin; even Ezra’s _scent_ , and Crowley couldn’t stand it. “Please stop,” he said wretchedly, and tried to duck away from the feeling of hands. “I can’t lose him again, please don’t make me do this, I _can’t_.” He hadn’t known he was capable of this kind of cruelty.

Then again, he deserved it.

The dream-Ezra paused, and sat Crowley back up straight. He whimpered at the loss, and then again when Ezra laid a gentle hand on his cheek. “My sun, I swear to you, it’s really me, I am really here. Will you try to believe it?”

“Anything you like, priest,” said Crowley obediently, because that was what he said when Ezra asked him for something and he knew he wasn’t strong enough to keep fighting the fantasy. If this was how he was going to lose his mind he might as well get used to it, and so far there were worse dreams to do it in. His surrender earned him the phantom-memory of lips high on his cheek.

“All right. Be still now, this needs to come off and we haven’t much time.” Ezra drew him forward again and this time Crowley wound his hands into the fabric of his robes. He had seen people do this, lose themselves in memory, and he’d always wondered how they could stand to reject the real world so thoroughly. It made perfect sense now. It did not matter that he was alone, clinging to emptiness; all that mattered was that he could believe, if he wanted to.

Ezra worked at the blindfold and somewhere far, far away it occurred to Crowley that a hallucination or a dream ought to be able to open locks with a touch. Suddenly Ezra said triumphantly, “There!” and he drew a sharp breath at the easing of the aching pressure. The blindfold came away and Ezra dropped it as if it were venomous, and Crowley looked up into his familiar face for a long moment. But—it didn’t matter that Ezra wasn’t real, Crowley still didn’t want him to see the ruins of his eyes, so he put his hands over them.

“I’m not looking,” said Ezra, and tugged his hands away. The familiar feeling of one of his own blindfolds settled across his eyes, the protective magic humming reassuringly. “I need you to fight. Can you do that for me?”

 _Fight?_ Crowley thought, baffled, as Ezra tied a hasty knot, but then from outside the cell came a voice.

“Ezra, the lift, get him up!”

It was a voice Crowley didn’t recognise.

And that meant this might be real.

And that meant he had to sodding well _move_.

* * *

Crowley went utterly still for just a moment.

“You have weapons for me?” Relief was ridiculously premature; they were still in a Horde prison cell beneath the busiest part of Orgrimmar—but Ezra couldn’t help it. Crowley sounded like _himself_ , and if he lurched to his feet with none of his usual grace Ezra thought that was only natural.

“Mhorduna’s spare glaives,” he answered. “We couldn’t bring armour, I’m sorry.”

Crowley snorted at him. Ezra could have _wept_ with the relief. “What were you going to do, put me in Mhorduna’s? I may be his height but across the shoulders he’s two of me.” He waved a dismissive hand but the airy gesture stopped short and a grimace flicked over his face.

 **We should have been faster, we should have gotten here sooner.** It was only what Ezra had been thinking himself, every moment of the skulking, roundabout journey to Orgrimmar. “Crowley,” Ezra began.

Crowley took a breath that shook and when he spoke Ezra could see exactly how thin his veneer of composure was. “Not now, I—not now.”

Ezra gave a hesitant nod. For a moment neither of them moved.

The lift gave a particularly expressive groan and Crowley turned sharply. The glaives leant against the wall outside and he scooped them up, weighing them in his hands. “They’re not balanced right but I’ll manage,” he said as Ezra followed him out, worrying silently about the unevenness of his gait.

As they emerged into the guardroom the lift platform ground into view. Four soldiers spilled out, real soldiers, not prison guards. At such short range the snap of Siegrunë’s bow arrived nearly simultaneously with that of the arrows finding their targets; two of the attackers crumpled. Dush leapt for the other two, followed by Mhorduna and Makavi. There wasn’t room for Crowley to get involved, and Ezra didn’t have to throw any healing into the brief fight. It seemed only fitting to send a prayer to the Light for the souls of the soldiers, who after all were only doing their jobs.

“Crowley, stay next to Dush, he’ll shield you,” ordered Mhorduna. “Deorid, the instant we’re clear of the wards, signal us.” The mage held up the glowing stone that would mark the edge of the teleportation block for her and wiggled it in illustration. “We’re in wooden swords mode.” In the Them’s tactical shorthand, that meant _Keep it as non-lethal as you can but don’t get yourselves killed doing it_. Wooden swords were weapons in their own right, after all.

“We need to get to the surface before they think to shut down the lift,” said Crowley. “I don’t fancy climbing the cables.”

As they piled on, Ezra took Crowley by the arm, ignoring the startled twitch, and offered a trickle of healing to flow into him. He didn’t have the time or focus to undo the subtle, pervasive damage wrought by sudden action after two weeks in a cell—he very much doubted Crowley would be _able_ to climb cables—but he could dull the pain.

They creaked upwards agonizingly slowly. After several anxious moments staring upwards, Ezra made use of the time to cast shields on everyone. He had just got done with Makavi’s when the lift shuddered and lurched to a halt a few spans from ground level. “Bugger,” said Crowley conversationally.

They lost precious seconds slithering themselves out of the cage. Crowley had to be boosted to the top of the lift car, and then to the floor above. No opposition presented itself as they hurried back towards the guards’ entrance, but as they neared it Crowley and Mhorduna, nearly simultaneously, said, “It’s a trap” and “Hold!”

“The room’s packed with fighters,” Mhorduna went on quietly. “We’ll have to go out the front.”

“I was really hoping not to have to cast in the middle of a fight,” said Deorid, trying to sound breezy.

“You’ll be fine,” said Mhorduna, and gave her a brief, reassuring clasp on the shoulder. “Let’s go before they decide to come looking for us.”

“Looks like this is where it stops being easy,” said Crowley as they doubled back.

“Easy,” Makavi repeated flatly, and Crowley shrugged.

“Relatively.”

They turned a corner and there stood the main doors. “They’re barring it,” said Mhorduna urgently. Dush broke into a run and Makavi followed, shifting to bear-form as she went; they hit the doors simultaneously, and apparently before the people outside had got the bar properly shipped. Their combined momentum burst the doors open, to alarmed cries.

Everyone else followed at a trot. Ezra did not like how hard Crowley was breathing, but there wasn’t anything to be done. They emerged into the dazzling sun to face a motley but solidifying group of soldiers, city guards, and other combatants.

That was the problem with the Valley of Strength: even in the brutal heat of the afternoon, the place was full of fighters—and they would only get more numerous as the hue and cry spread. But the Them didn’t have to fight their way to the city gates, only far enough away from the prison to escape the wards. They spread into a half-moon with the sheer stone wall at their backs and began to slide along it. In the center of the thin line was Dush, with Mhorduna and Crowley on his flanks; between the fluid, acrobatic style of the Illidari and Dush’s tendency to sway out of the way of attacks as if he were drunk, the three of them looked like a Faire ride gone murderously off-kilter. Ezra had seen gnomish harvesting equipment that worked like that, but he’d never thought of repurposing it against enemies.

Crowley had never fought alongside the Them before. If Ezra recalled correctly, he had only fought _against_ them the once. Yet his every motion was perfectly in tune with the operation of the rest of the party. He fought with a synchronicity normally only fostered after long years spent training together. He _belonged_. Ezra thanked the Light, whose beneficence was the only possible explanation for their success.

Of course, it remained to be seen how long Crowley could _keep_ fighting. Even aside from two weeks of inactivity, he couldn’t have been fed well in the prison and he didn’t eat enough to begin with; he had to be burning through already-depleted reserves to be mobile at all.

The attackers didn’t seem interested in keeping the Them from moving sideways, and only a few moments after they’d left the prison Deorid exclaimed, “I’m good!” They stopped, backed into a shallow angle where two cliff-walls met. The position was a terrible one to advance from, but they didn’t have to. They just had to hold this spot, just for a little while. Deorid stood in a small clear space within the physical fighters’ perimeter, with Ezra and Makavi flanking her.

Ezra had found that keeping track of a melee like this required a free-floating awareness almost like a trance; he couldn’t focus on any one person, lest someone else be hurt without his notice. But his attention kept slipping back to Crowley, fighting unarmoured with weapons that weren’t his, after a fortnight of blind, shackled despair.

Therefore Ezra saw the sword that Crowley did not. There wasn’t time to shout a warning; instead he let the shadows leap to the attacker and seize control of the man’s mind, redirecting the blow. His shield chose that moment to flicker out.

And before he could renew it, from nowhere came a blur across his vision, and an impact at the junction of his neck and shoulder that turned into a green-fletched arrow, and Ezra thought clearly, _Oh dear, that’s going to hurt in just a moment_.

* * *

Crowley tried to stay back, but there was only so much ‘back’ to stay in; the mage needed room to work and they had to maintain a perimeter around her. Ezra’s pandaren guildmate (Dush? He thought his name was Dush.) drew a fair bit of attention by being so utterly unpredictable, but there were more than enough attackers to go around. Crowley ignored the phantom pains that broke through Ezra’s healing easily enough, and concentrated on dealing with his stiff limbs and the fact that warglaives weren’t weapons designed to stun one’s opponent.

The mage was about two thirds of the way through her spell when Crowley beat one opponent away to be replaced by someone he recognised, a tauren woman who’d worked with his guild. “Crowley!” she exclaimed.

He sucked air through his teeth and muttered, “This is awkward.”

Deerdancer didn’t reply, just whirled her halberd into a falling strike. Crowley deflected it, barely, but between that and the talons of her owl diving for his face he lost track of the other nearby fighters—until one of them stumbled into his peripheral vision, his sword flailing at Deerdancer and the shadows around him indiscriminately. Mind-control: a reason to be wary of priests.

Missiles whined through the air as Crowley kicked Deerdancer in the thigh. She was double his weight at least but leverage counted for something and she stumbled back.

Crowley had a moment’s lull, and into the relative quiet Makavi began to chant.

The words that call magic are the same no matter what language a person speaks in the day-to-day, and Crowley had heard this spell more often than he liked; it pulled a person’s soul back to their body in the moments before it could escape to the in-between. He couldn’t spare the attention to turn and see who’d been hit. Makavi reached the end of the short spell. There was a pause, and then her voice rose again in a wail. “ _Ezra_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Orgrimmar:** The city is built in, and in many cases in _to_ , a series of linked, steep-walled canyons. The main gates lead to the Valley of Strength, wherein lie the auction house, the bank, and the 'capitol building', Grommash Hold.
> 
>  **The prison:** We're picturing the prison entrances as being in the canyon wall north-northwest of Grommash Hold, though obviously 'real' Orgrimmar is larger than in-game Orgrimmar, and has a lot more buildings. But there are clearly caves beneath the area, because of the Cleft of Shadows and how Our Heroes get in to rescue Baine.
> 
>  **Ritual of Summoning:** Novanne is a warlock, and can cast a spell that will summon party members as long as she has at least two others to help. In our version, both this and Deorid's portal are short rituals that are very draining to the caster. (Also please note that the party is two short, the scenario got set to Heroic by accident, and one of the party members is debuffed and _severely_ undergeared...)
> 
>  **Maka hates lifts:** Gravity is the deadliest boss in WoW; there are lifts all over the place that have no safety rails. One notorious example is a hole in the center of a room _in which you have to fight_. If you dungeon-dive at all, you hate lifts.
> 
>  **Why don't they just hearth out?** The problem with hearthstones in this context is that they take several seconds to activate, during which time you can't do anything else - including defend yourself. Even if they went one at a time, the last person would be stuck. Deorid's portal takes longer to cast, but everyone else can protect her while she works and they can all go at once.


	33. Chapter 33

Crowley dropped the glaives as he spun, heedless of the gap he was leaving in the perimeter. Makavi knelt, cradling Ezra in her arms, muttering _no no no no_ ; she wasn’t going to be any use. Crowley crashed to his knees at her side. There wasn’t time to explain; there wasn’t time to hesitate. The mage’s chanting was nearing its peak and he could feel the magic singing through the air, and getting out of Orgrimmar wouldn’t matter if Crowley didn’t move fast enough. Ezra had bargained, but he wasn’t the only one who could make a deal and Crowley wasn’t going to lose him _again_.

“Brother!” Crowley roared. Mhorduna spared him a glance that was more of a suggestion, just enough to show he was paying attention. “Take us both back!”

Ezra’s dagger lay near his limp hand and Crowley snatched it up. Makavi gasped and reached out to stop him, but Crowley couldn’t let himself be stopped. He drove the knife into his own throat.

Damn _everything_ , dying always fucking hurt.

* * *

Mhorduna had just thought that this was all going exceptionally well when he heard Maka begin to cast and he recognised the spell with a sinking heart. Elune would have her little jokes. He couldn’t turn to look; the axe-wielder before him seemed determined to take his head clean off and glaives were too lightweight to go against plate directly.

The spell wound to its conclusion. Mhorduna waited for the downed person to call out that they were back—standard procedure.

He waited.

“ _Ezra_!” Makavi screamed, and Mhorduna _couldn’t turn_ ; if the axe-wielder got to Deorid they’d _all_ die. He punched the point of one glaive at the man’s throat, more to make him dodge than anything else, and just caught one of the rings of his aventail.

Behind him Crowley shouted, “Brother!” Mhorduna took advantage of his split second of freedom to glance back. Makavi held Ezra draped across her lap and curled over him, rocking; Crowley knelt beside her, reaching for something on the ground. Mhorduna thought absurdly that it was considerate of Crowley not to use his name. “Take us both back!”

He didn’t have time to work out what that meant before he had to turn his attention out again. Mhorduna stooped to slash at the axe-wielder's legs and the man danced back; as he straightened he took an assessing look around. They were moments from being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. His glance caught on a sin’dorei woman on the edge of the fight; she held her glaives ready but didn’t throw them, nor make any effort to advance, and she struck him as familiar.

More important, though, was Crowley, sprawled like a dropped coil of rope, the hilt of Ezra’s dagger protruding from his throat. Mhorduna shoved down a wash of fury; he couldn’t afford the distraction.

“Boss, portal!” Deorid shouted.

They had rehearsed; Mhorduna had no need to give any orders beyond “ _Go_!” He and Dush held their position as the rest of the Them vanished through the portal, to the rooms they’d rented in Dalaran for the purpose. Makavi went last, weeping openly, with Ezra’s body cradled in her arms.

“I need five seconds,” said Mhorduna, and Dush nodded and burst into a final flurry of blows that drove their attackers back, clearing just enough space for Mhorduna to bend and scoop up Crowley’s body. “Got him!” he said, and he and Dush dove for the portal simultaneously.

The magic swept over him as if he’d fallen into water and then the surface under his feet was wood instead of packed dirt. Deorid released the spell with a gasp and a burst of light. As the portal collapsed a lone crossbow bolt flew through it to bury itself in the wall, humming like a malignant wasp with excess energy.

Mhorduna took a deep breath and surveyed his people.

They all looked as if they’d been in a fight—except Siegrunë, who never got a hair out of place even when literally dead. Gnoklu clutched his left arm to his chest with his right hand; he’d taken a nasty slash on his upper arm. Makavi, still in tears, had transferred Ezra’s body to Siegrunë to have her hands free to heal him.

“Alright, to the garrison. Someone needs to go to Boralus first to let Alicia know I need to see her—Dush, if you would?” The pandaren nodded. “As for these two, all we can do is hope for Elune’s blessing.” At least, for Crowley. Ezra had known the risks, and Mhorduna had arrangements to make before he could take time to mourn, or to rage.

Such as, “Sieg, help Maka with Ezra, please.” Siegrunë looked up at him and Mhorduna went on, “She’ll need a bit of help.”

“Yes, boss,” said Sieg, and from her tone of voice she wasn’t sure what he meant but understood it was serious.

* * *

Alicia caught up with him as he was laying Crowley’s body out. “Fucked that one up,” she said, as if she were mentioning that it was raining.

Mhorduna didn’t like to snap at his people, especially when they were right. He should have just given Crowley a hearthstone—but then Ezra would have insisted on going along, and they’d needed the extra healing magic, and...well, it didn’t matter. “I suppose I did,” he said.

“What’s wrong with Maka? I’ve never seen her in such a state.”

“She thinks she failed to bring Ezra back,” said Mhorduna. He turned to face her, leaning on the table Crowley’s body rested on. “And you know what that kind of thing does to her.”

“Well, Ezra’s come back from worse than a quick, clean arrow,” said Alicia.

Mhorduna sighed and said, “He’s not coming back this time.”

There was a moment’s shocked pause. “How can you know that?”

“I’ll give you the long story later, but the short one is that Ezra made a deal with the spirit healers. To make sure someone else stayed dead.”

“Light bless me,” said Alicia. “I’ve heard of that kind of thing, but it’s very rare.”

“So I’m going to explain to Maka that it's not her fault. I just need to get Crowley cleaned up first. I wanted you to know so that you can start thinking about finding another healer.”

“That’s not going to be easy, with the way the war’s going. Especially not one as good as Ezra.”

“I know,” said Mhorduna. “If we end up understrength for a while, Command will have to live with it.”

Alicia nodded. “We’re going to have to come up with a cover story for what happened to him. We can’t tell people he got killed in an Orgrimmar prison break.” Her voice carefully held no censure; she had not been in favour of the rescue.

“Good thinking.” Mhorduna decided he must be more tired than he’d thought. It hadn’t even occurred to him.

“You need _someone_ with some sense around here. You’re all hopeless romantics.” She waved her hand at Crowley’s body. “Do you want help with that?”

“I can handle my brother,” said Mhorduna. “Ezra wanted him safe, so I’m going to see to it. We’ll work out what to do with him when he’s recovered, well, when he’s recovered. He can’t exactly go back to his guild. When I’m done here I’ll take him to the spare room to wait for him to come back.”

“Are you sure he is coming back?” asked Alicia. “I assume he was just as over the moon for Ezra as Ezra was for him.”

Mhorduna shrugged. “All I can do is hope.” In truth he had his doubts, but there was no harm in hoping. “Get someone to bring me clean clothes from my room. If he does wake up he can’t wear these.” After two weeks in a cell with limited facilities and no way to bathe, the clothes Crowley had been wearing when he was arrested were hideous. Mhorduna doubted there was enough soap in the world to save them. “Ask Maka if she needs help with Ezra, and don’t take no for an answer. She needs people with her.”

“You’re the boss,” said Alicia, and left. Mhorduna closed the door behind her and bolted it. He wanted privacy for this; stripping a corpse was a profoundly undignified exercise for all parties involved, and from what Ezra had said Crowley was touchy about people seeing him undressed. Many Illidari were. But he couldn’t object too much to Mhorduna.

He had not done this job in a long time, and occasionally, when memory rose too sharply, he talked. “That was a bit of a scene you made,” he said, making inroads on the grime that seemed ground into Crowley’s skin. “When you wake up you’re going to have some explaining to do. I hope you’re prepared to be scolded.”

As he washed Crowley’s hair, “I know you didn’t stop to think about it. You need to be more careful about acting on your instincts. Instinct gets people killed.”

He combed Crowley’s hair out still wet, and plaited it. “He risked everything for you, and you can’t throw away his last gift like this. I know it’ll be hard. Believe me, I do know. But his last wish was for you to be safe, little brother, and I’m going to honour that even if one of the things you need to be protected from is yourself.” There was, of course, no hair tie; Mhorduna took his own hair out of its tail and used the tie to finish the job. It wasn’t as decorative as the ones Crowley usually wore, but it would serve.

With the last of the clean water he washed Crowley’s face, careful of the scars surrounding the pits of his eyes. On the side of his face, just in front of his ear where it was usually hidden by a blindfold, Mhorduna found a small tattoo: a stylized manawyrm, coiled as if in mid-flight. He wondered what colour it was.

With the hard work done, he dressed Crowley again. In Mhorduna’s spare clothing Crowley looked like a younger brother in truth, dressed in his elders’ hand-me-downs. He might have been sleeping, if not for his complete stillness and the wound in his throat. There was nothing to be done about it; if he came back it would heal on its own, and if he didn’t it wouldn’t make any difference.

When he got to the spare room, Ezra’s body was already there, laid out neatly in one of the narrow beds. Makavi sat beside it with her face in her hands. Mhorduna put Crowley’s body on the other bed.

“Alicia made the beacon,” said Makavi, without looking up. “He’ll be able to find his way back. I suppose they both will.” Mhorduna hesitated, and she went on, “It’s my fault. I didn’t catch him in time.”

Mhorduna sighed, and pulled a chair over next to hers. “It’s not your fault. There’s something you need to know,” he said.

* * *

_**You’re here. It’s time to go** , said the spirit healer. **Ready or not, you will move on**._

_**No,** said Crowley’s voice, **he won’t.**_

_Ezra turned. To his great dismay, Crowley stood beside him, in a long red robe quite unlike anything Ezra had ever seen him wear. **What are you doing here?** Ezra demanded._

_**Stopping you getting into trouble,** Crowley replied, with a degree of cheer that Ezra thought utterly unwarranted. He wasn’t wearing a blindfold here, and his eyes were unscarred, uninjured. They glowed golden. _At least I’ve seen how he remembers his eyes, _Ezra thought. A flash of green hid under Crowley’s hair, near his temple, but Ezra didn’t have attention to spare for it._

_**It is not for you to decide, Illidari** , said the spirit healer. **He made a bargain, and he must abide by it. You may have a moment to say goodbye.**_

_Ezra took Crowley’s hands. **I’m so sorry, my sun. I...all I wanted was to spend more time with you**._

_**Shut it, priest,** said Crowley fondly. He turned his attention back to the floating figure. **He can’t leave. He bargained in good faith, but he couldn’t give away what you asked of him. His life is mine, as my life is his, he could not give it away. As you wish, I will do, as long as the sun shines. The sun still shines, and I don’t wish it. He can’t leave. I have a prior claim.**_

_The spirit healer did not, technically speaking, have a face, so Ezra wasn’t sure where the sudden impression of uncertainty came from. **He bargained**._

_**He didn’t know he couldn’t. The human rite doesn’t work the same way.** To the best of Ezra’s knowledge, Crowley had no idea what human marriage rituals entailed, but he spoke with every appearance of confidence._

_For a moment the spirit healer didn’t respond. Then its form wavered, out of sight and back, and suddenly there were two, and a blue dragon besides. Ezra would have been ashamed of his automatic movement in Crowley’s direction, except that he met Crowley coming the other way and their hands wrapped around each other. After the initial shock, however, Ezra realised who this must be._

_He bowed. **Lord Azuregos, it’s an honour.** He’d heard the stories, of a dragon who had chosen to take guardianship of the realm of shadows—for love. Surely Azuregos would understand, would forgive Crowley his presumption and let him go back._

_**Alright,** **what’s going on?** the dragon asked briskly._

_**Well you see,** said Ezra, **I had had rather a bad spot, and when I saw Teldrassil all burnt and ruined it really was a bit too much, so I was sitting on the dock in Auberdine, when Crowley here—**_

_The aforementioned Crowley made a shushing gesture. Ezra stopped talking. **So you’re in charge here?** Crowley asked._

_**For these purposes, yes** , Azuregos replied. Ezra thought he sounded amused, which could only be good._

_**Right**. Crowley drew himself up, like a customer who finally has a manager to complain to. **This healer is trying to take my priest.**_

_**He made a bargain,** said the spirit healer. **The end of his story in return for the end of another.**_

_**That’s my point,** said Crowley triumphantly. **It’s not his story any longer. It’s our story.**_

_The dragon shook his massive head. **His story would end before yours in any case,** he said. **He is human. Now, tomorrow, in a few years—what does it matter?**_

_**Nothing, to you,** Crowley replied. **To us, it’s everything. This story isn’t done. It can’t be, because I have a prior claim.**_

_The second spirit healer, silent until now, laid a hand on Azuregos’s neck. **He’s right. Look at them. Their threads are spun together now.**_

_**Damn right,** said Crowley, nearly a growl. **He’s**_ **mine** _**.** _

_There was a pause, uncomfortably long, or at least Ezra found it so. Finally Azuregos said, **A price must still be paid for the death that was granted. I couldn’t excuse that, even if I would.**_

_Crowley shrugged. **You said it yourself, that I’d live longer. So let our story end together instead. When his life ends, so does mine.**_

_**Crowley, no!** Ezra exclaimed. Crowley squeezed his hand._

_**Do we have a deal?** _

_Azuregos fixed Ezra with a penetrating look. **Not unless all parties agree.**_

_Ezra turned and took Crowley by the shoulders. **You can’t,** he said. **Not when you can have so much after I’m gone.**_

* * *

_It really was quite pleasant to be able to roll his eyes. **Don’t be daft, priest.**_

_**It’s not** _ **daft** _, Ezra protested. **You can’t give up your whole life for my sake!**_

_**I’m not, I’m making sure it’ll be what I want.** He took Ezra’s hands in his own. **Come back with me**._

_Ezra’s lips thinned and his brow furrowed, tiny creases appearing at the corners of his eyes. Crowley drank it all in, hoping to remember it the next time Ezra got testy with him. **The price is too high**._

_**Well then, only one thing for it**. He turned his attention back to the dragon. **Everything I’ve got left, and I’ll stay here in his place. That’s between you and me, yeah?**_

_Azuregos tilted his head and Crowley didn’t think he was imagining that the dragon looked amused. **It is**._

_**Don’t you dare, you—you—you** _ **tempter** _ **!** Ezra exclaimed. Crowley raised his eyebrows expectantly. **Oh, you’re insufferable! Fine, yes, I agree.** He rather undercut his display of dudgeon by flinging himself into Crowley’s arms. **I won’t go back without you**._

_**Lovely. That’s sorted. Do we have a deal?** _

_**We do** , Azuregos rumbled. **You are both as you were, until your story ends.** He paused, and said more seriously, **Don’t expect to make this a habit.**_

_Crowley could feel the new order of the world sinking into him. He wondered how it felt to Ezra, if Ezra could feel it at all._

_And then, another feeling, all too familiar: the pull that would take him back to his body. He resisted it so that he could look into Ezra’s face for just another moment. **Blue** , he said, and smiled. **Your eyes are blue.**_

* * *

Hearing returned before anything else, but Crowley couldn’t make the words that drifted past him coalesce into meaning. Eventually he realised someone was crying, and that was probably not good. He fought an exhausting battle to focus on the person sitting next to his bed: Mhorduna.

It took no fewer than four tries to get words out of his mouth that were both understandable and in Common, and they emerged in a croak. “Is he back?”

Mhorduna hesitated, which was answer enough, and said, “He’s not breathing yet. If he’s going to.” From the tone of his voice he was humouring Crowley by even entertaining the possibility, which Crowley supposed was fair enough.

The crying person, who turned out to be Makavi, appeared in his line of sight so suddenly she might as well have teleported there. “He’s _gone_ ,” she spat. “He’s gone because he wanted to rescue you.”

“He’s not, he can’t be,” said Crowley.

“How would you know?” Makavi asked, in a voice that dripped scorn.

Crowley shrugged. “Because if he wasn’t coming back, I wouldn’t have either.” He could feel it in his blood, running through him like the fel but infinitely more benevolent. He didn’t know why he believed it; surely he of all people didn’t get that kind of ending. But he was certain.

“Oh, fuck you!” Makavi exclaimed, and whirled out of his field of view again.

The pause that followed was brief but extremely fraught. “We’re going to have to make some sort of plan eventually,” said Mhorduna heavily. “But don’t worry about it right now. Here.” He offered a cup.

It turned out Crowley couldn’t drink from it on his own; it was too damned heavy, and his hands shook. Mhorduna rescued him from near-disaster twice before taking the cup back. Crowley drank, and decided to fold his embarrassment away with all his other inconvenient emotions, to be dealt with, ideally, never.

Towards the end of this operation, the door opened to admit a human woman. Crowley didn’t know her, though by her robes she was another priest. “Mhorduna,” she began, and then paused for a beat. “Alright, I have to admit I didn’t expect that.” She waved a hand in Crowley’s direction. “If he’s back, it’s been long enough. It’s not safe to leave the door open.”

“You can’t!” Makavi exclaimed, which meant Crowley didn’t have to. They’d moved Ezra’s body, and not to a graveyard; people _could_ come back without the guidance of a soul-beacon in such circumstances, but it was much more difficult.

The priest’s reply didn’t sound happy, but it did sound _firm_. “I have to and you know it. The longer the beacon lasts, the more chance something else will find it. You don’t want to have to fight shadow-spawn any more than I do.”

“But Ezra,” said Makavi miserably.

“Maka, I told you,” Mhorduna began, but the priest’s voice cut across him.

“Mhorduna, he’s _breathing_.”

Mhorduna turned sharply. “What?”

Despite great temptation, Crowley didn’t waste any time sighing in relief; instead he took advantage of the small storm of surprise to push back the blanket that covered him and try to stand up.

It turned out to not be the best plan he’d ever had. As soon as he attempted to support his own weight his legs went out from under him and he only narrowly avoided hitting his head on anything on the way down. Before he could put himself back in order, from above him Mhorduna said, “You are each as bad as the other, Elune witness that it’s true.” Despite his tone he offered a hand up, which turned into him hauling Crowley to his feet by main force. Crowley didn’t even try to care.

They stumbled—Crowley stumbled; Mhorduna kept him from falling again—across the few feet to the side of Ezra’s bed. Crowley fell into the chair next to it feeling like he’d just come off a forced march in combat gear and groped for Ezra’s hand. Once he had it, Ezra rolled a bit onto his side and clutched their joined hands to his chest, without apparently waking up at all. Which meant that Crowley could relax a bit; an Ezra seeking out pleasant sensations was an Ezra who’d be just fine, eventually.

Crowley spent so long trying to gather the energy to get into a more comfortable position that he fell asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Spirit beacon:** Not a game thing, we made it up out of whole cloth just because it seemed interesting.
> 
>  **Azuregos:** There's a Cataclysm quest chain in which you have to go find Azuregos, and you discover that he's in a relationship with a spirit healer. It's mostly played for laughs; we decided to make it a little more serious.
> 
> Holy moly, y'all, take a look at that art! By my esteemed co-author's friend [Jawn](https://jawnlma.carrd.co/).


	34. Chapter 34

Ezra lay for a long time enjoying himself. He felt safe, and cozy, and really being dead wasn’t so bad as all that. After a while, though, it occurred to him that he had someone’s arm draped over his waist, and that seemed a bit odd. It took some effort to open his eyes, but he was curious; no one had ever suggested that the realm of the dead would include _cuddling_.

The arm belonged to Crowley, who was lying with his face smashed into a pillow in a way Ezra would have found endearingly undignified under any other circumstances. As it was, he felt a shock of horror. What could have happened? He remembered riding the lift up from the cells in the Orgrimmar prison, and the heat beating his head like a hammer, and _something_ had hit him—but Crowley had been alright, hadn’t he?

Obviously not, since he was here. Ezra sniffled and bit his lip but it was no use, and he realised he hadn’t even managed to cry _quietly_ when Crowley stirred. “Shush, priest, ‘m sleepin’,” he mumbled, and patted Ezra’s hip. “Need the rest. Both’f us do.”

“We’re _dead_ , how can that possibly matter?” Ezra couldn’t stop himself crying and he hated it. Crowley was taking this calmly, why couldn’t he? “Mhorduna put the guild at risk because I asked him to and I didn’t even get you out safe.”

A moment’s pause, and then, “What are you on about?” Crowley asked, sounding considerably more alert. He squirmed around to lie on his side. “We’re not dead.”

“Of course we are,” said Ezra. “I talked to the spirit healer...didn’t I?” He could swear he remembered it, the voices that weren’t voices and Crowley’s lovely golden eyes, but details slipped out of his grasp.

“Guess we must’ve.”

Ezra closed his eyes. “Well then.”

“Priest,” said Crowley, with only the thinnest veil over his exasperation, “have you actually looked around?”

“What?”

“Take a minute and look at where we are. I’ll wait.”

For a moment Ezra just stared. Crowley raised one eyebrow, a trick Ezra envied since he’d never managed to learn how to do it. “Alright,” he said hesitantly. Levering himself up onto one elbow was surprisingly difficult; should one be so tired when one was dead?

The room was...well, it _was_ a room, which Ezra supposed he should have expected since he and Crowley lay in a bed. But it looked like the garrison, the spare room they kept for recovery. The other bed looked as if it had been slept in, and a chair sat at each bedside.

After a long moment Ezra turned back, to discover that Crowley was staring at him. “In a while Mhorduna’s going to want to yell at us, I expect, and if that doesn’t convince you nothing will. Now come here and let me sleep.”

He sounded so certain, and Ezra couldn’t deny he wanted to believe it. He wiped his eyes and lay back down, curling against Crowley’s side where it was warm and safe. They maneuvered about for comfortable positions, ending with Ezra’s face tucked into Crowley’s shoulder.

For a few moments, there was silence.

“I was waiting to die,” said Crowley softly.

“Shush, my dear, I’m sleeping,” Ezra replied, and soon enough it was true.

* * *

“Wake up, priest, Mhorduna is going to explain the error of our ways,” said Crowley, and Ezra rolled grumpily onto his side. Crowley shook him gently by the shoulder.

“Don’t want to.” Eating something might reconcile him a bit to being awake, but not if he had to get up.

“Not exactly turning handsprings myself but I’ve met him and we’re not weaseling out of this.”

Ezra huffed in disgust. “Yes, of course, you’re right, you’re always right, but I don’t want to get out of bed.”

There was a split second’s pause before Crowley replied, “He didn’t say we had to get out of bed.”

“Good because I _won’t_.” Ezra supposed he’d have to get up eventually but he intended to put it off as long as possible.

“No one’s trying to make you so stop wasting energy on it.”

Crowley was half-sitting against the pillows, which Ezra found acceptable, and he nestled himself into Crowley’s side. Crowley didn’t move and Ezra was forced to drape Crowley’s arm around his own shoulders himself.

As they were completing this arrangement, someone knocked, and opened the door without waiting for an answer: Mhorduna, with a tray.

“Not a quarter hour yet,” said Crowley.

“I could hear him.” Mhorduna set the tray down on the small table between the beds, straightened, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared. As a side effect of Crowley, Ezra had gotten much better at telling where Illidari were looking, and he was almost positive Mhorduna wasn’t looking at _him_. Finally Mhorduna said, “I’d like a word, brother. In private.”

Ezra felt Crowley’s sudden tension and his own grip tightened in response. “No,” said Crowley. Silence hung in the air for a moment. “I can’t. Not yet and you know it.” Alarmingly, his voice wobbled a bit.

Mhorduna heaved a breath. “This isn’t likely to be a calm conversation.”

“I’ve had worse,” said Crowley stubbornly. “Sit down and stop looming.”

Mhorduna did, which Ezra had to admit made him feel a bit better about the whole thing, but that didn’t make his tone any softer. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” he demanded. Crowley took a breath but Mhorduna bulled on, “I put my guild, my _friends_ on the line for you, Crowley! Maka’s _still_ half in shock and I can’t blame her, with the stunt you pulled.”

“How long was it?” Crowley asked. He sounded calm enough but Ezra could feel him trembling. “Must’ve been at least a week. For a week, he was dead and it was my fault.” Ezra made to sit up and Crowley said, “No, priest, I’m telling you how it was, alright? He was dead, and then he wasn’t dead, and then—” He drew the sort of breath that’s meant to be steadying; Ezra didn’t think it worked. “I couldn’t risk waiting. You have every right to be angry and if you want me to leave I will, but I couldn’t risk it.”

“Explain to me what you thought you were going to do,” said Mhorduna, still angry but the edge of fury had gone. “He knew the risks going to Orgrimmar. _You_ knew the deal he’d made. If you’d stayed dead, all the risks the guild ran would have been for nothing, and you had no reason to think you could do anything. It’s only the blessing of Elune that brought either of you back.”

"No, it's not," said Crowley. "No insult intended to Her. There wasn't time to explain but I had a prior claim."

Ezra was glad to see puzzlement on Mhorduna’s face, if only so that he didn’t have to intrude into a conversation that didn’t involve him. Mhorduna struggled _not_ to say any number of things, and eventually pushed out: “Elaborate on that.”

Crowley made a considering hum. “What would it mean to you, if someone told you _as you wish_?” Ezra blinked.

Mhorduna’s head titled a fraction and he said, “Everything. For as long as Elune guides us.” Ezra had never heard him sound so soft, even melancholy.

Crowley nodded against the top of Ezra’s head. “As long as the sun shines," he agreed. "I had a prior claim.”

Mhorduna sat back in his chair. “Well. That explains...something, at least. How you got them to listen at all. But I need to know what you paid.”

Crowley hesitated, and Ezra braced himself. “For now we’re...can you call it ‘normal’, coming back? There are surely fewer who can than can’t, if normal is what most people—”

“My sun,” said Ezra, “what did you bargain with?” He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to hear the answer; the phrase _there wasn’t time to explain_ had set off a warning bell.

Evenly, Crowley said, “When you die for good, so will I.”

Ezra sat up straight and this time Crowley let him. He twisted to face Crowley directly, and got a nod for his pains. “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” said Ezra. His hands laced together, the better to clench on each other. “You, my dear, how—I have so little time, compared to what you should have!”

Crowley shrugged. “Just got done demonstrating I’m shite at living without you. This way I won’t have to.”

“But Crowley,” said Ezra, and couldn’t think of how to go on. Crowley took his hands and tried to still them.

“Crowley,” said Mhorduna, “you can stay here for now.” Ezra was grateful for the interruption—and for being reminded that Mhorduna was in the room. “I suggest you don’t go too far from the garrison, but at least no one will think to look for you here. But Makavi deserves an explanation too and you’re going to provide it because I’m damned well not. I got her drunk but when she’s recovered, I’m sending her to you.”

“Suppose that’s only fair,” said Crowley, resigned.

“Ezra, you’re going back in the rotation as soon as you’re fit for it.” Ezra nodded. “Anything else for right now?”

“I need to get word to a friend,” said Crowley. “Ideally I'd see her in person, in Dalaran would probably be safest. She won't know what's happened to me. As far as she knows I'm dead.”

Ezra seized on the idea gratefully. “I can have a message left at the shop. Surely she’ll be checking.” It was, at least, something concrete to do.

Mhorduna groaned and said, “It won’t be safe.” Crowley, rather pointedly, didn’t answer. “Alright. I will be there, or Maka if I can’t. Ezra, you’ll have to translate. After all this I’m not taking chances with you _or_ your husband.”

“I’m sure you’ll get to hear a lot of Goblin cursing,” said Crowley. He rubbed his forehead and his shoulders slumped. “I deserve it.”

“If you’re expecting an argument from me you’ll be waiting a while,” said Mhorduna dryly. “I have some things to see to. You two get some rest.”

When he had gone Crowley sighed heavily. “Only wanted to yell at me, looks like.”

Ezra considered and discarded several possible responses before settling on, “What exactly happened? And if you’d give me some water, if you please.”

“I don’t remember what happened exactly,” said Crowley as he stretched out for a cup from the tray. “I just know what the new terms are.”

“I’m going to have to think about why you knew and I didn’t,” said Ezra, momentarily diverted. “But that’s not what I meant. I’ve lost almost all of Orgrimmar, I think.” His memory of it was a scant collection of images, with no context or connecting narrative, like a piece of Alterac swiss: more hole than cheese. He clearly remembered Crowley in that horrid cell, but it would take more than death to erase that image. “I—I didn’t shield you?”

Crowley shook his head. “Priest, you had enough to worry about. It was the person I was fighting, the tauren. She knows me, and between that and the owl I got distracted. That’s all there was to it.”

That was clearly _not_ all there was to it. “Then why was Mhorduna so angry?”

Crowley took a moment to reply, but Ezra didn’t get the sense he was trying to evade the question, just put together how to answer it. “Do you remember being hit?”

Green flashed across his vision. “I think so.”

“Makavi tried to raise you, but of course it didn’t work. So I...well, I followed you.”

“You _what_?”

“Stabbed myself in the throat,” said Crowley, with forced nonchalance. “I don’t recommend it.”

“Oh, darling.” Ezra sighed down at his own hands. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I had to,” said Crowley, and his voice cracked. He coughed, and said in a more normal tone, “Makavi didn’t know about your deal, so she thought she’d failed.”

“We’ll have to find a way to make it up to her.” Ezra sipped from the cup, thought of things he could say. Decided to say them later. “I’m afraid I’m already tired again.”

“Put that down, then,” said Crowley, and Ezra did. He let Crowley arrange their bodies as he liked, and so ended up lying mostly on top of him. Ezra didn’t understand how it could be comfortable for Crowley, but he didn’t like to argue about it either.

Ezra was tired, cripplingly so, but not _sleepy_ quite yet. “My dear, your guildmate, the one who came to Dalaran when you were recovering, what’s her name?”

“Birti—Celebiriel,” Crowley answered, in a tone of faint puzzlement. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t remember any of this, I fear, but Siegrunë found me after—after Hastur burnt down the house,” said Ezra, and grimaced at the tremor that went through Crowley. “She said she saw someone carry me away from it, an Illidari sin’dora in red armour. Short horns, or none at all.”

“I think Birti’s armour is red,” said Crowley, commendably calm. “Do you know, it just hadn’t occurred to me to wonder how you survived?”

“You’ve had other things to worry about, rather.”

“I suppose. Well, if it was her I’ll have to thank her.”

“You’re not the only kind one in your guild,” said Ezra. He could all but hear Crowley wishing to roll his eyes, which had been the desired effect.

“Mirimë doesn't take Hastur and Ligur's type.”

“Very wise of her,” said Ezra. A yawn caught him in the middle of the last word; possibly he was sleepy after all.

“Right. Sleeping now, priest. We can talk _later_.”

* * *

When Crowley woke up, the bed felt very crowded, and he puzzled over it for several minutes before the shape lying next to him registered. It wasn’t Ezra; in fact it wasn’t a human. It was, instead, Makavi, who appeared to be asleep. Crowley spent about three seconds panicking before he noticed that there was warmth curled against his back. If _that_ wasn’t Ezra there was going to be a problem.

He hadn’t worked out how to extricate himself—this was worse than having been moved from the chair to Ezra’s bed while he was asleep—when Ezra said, “Are you alright, my sun?”

“Priest,” said Crowley tightly, “your druid is in bed with us.”

“She’s what?” Ezra pushed himself up to peer over Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh my,” he said, sounding amused. “She must have been very upset.”

“ _That_ is your reaction to finding Makavi in bed with us?” Crowley demanded—at a fairly low volume, because people needed their sleep and he wasn’t a barbarian.

“Well, I’ll talk to her, but Mhorduna did say she was drunk.” Ezra slid away and Crowley stifled a noise of protest. “Yesterday must have been so hard on her.”

“She’s _in bed with us_ ,” Crowley repeated, because he didn’t feel that the point was being given the attention it deserved.

“I’d have gotten in on Ezra’s side but there wasn’t room,” said Makavi, and yawned.

Crowley lifted his head, the better to thump it back down into the pillow. Ezra’s guildmates seemed determined to mortify him into discorporating again.

Behind him he heard the tiny sound of Ezra’s feet hitting the floor. “Well, that’s better than I was expecting,” said Ezra. “Not exactly tip-top, but I think I’ll do.”

“You’re going to fall,” said Makavi. She scrambled off the bed. “Here, let me help.”

Crowley rolled to take advantage of Ezra’s vacated patch of warmth. He would have liked to get up and offer assistance, but he was unhappily aware he was much more likely to be a hindrance than a help.

“Oh, thank you, my dear, but I’ll be fine.”

“No you won’t. Lean on the druid.” Meanwhile Crowley was going to concentrate very hard on not resenting her for being able to provide aid when he couldn’t.

At that point it dawned on him that, having gotten out of bed, Ezra must be intending to go somewhere; he and Makavi started shuffling in the direction of the door. “Hold on, no, where are you going?”

“I thought it might be nice to go back to my room,” said Ezra. “After, erm.”

“Not without me you’re not,” said Crowley, and sat up. A wave of dizziness nearly knocked him flat again.

“I’ll come back for you,” said Makavi.

“No you will _not_ ,” Crowley snapped.

“I can’t carry you both.”

“I’ll walk,” he said, though his knees were not at all certain they’d be able to deliver on the promises his mouth was making.

Makavi gave him a slow up-and-down scan and he didn’t have to be able to read her expression to see the skepticism that bled from her like dye that wasn’t fast into washwater. “If you break something, don’t blame me,” she said.

"Look, I've learnt my lesson, not going to break any bones from here to the other end of the hall," retorted Crowley.

"I meant the furnishings."

"...oh."

The trip to Ezra’s room (with necessary side jaunt) killed what little reserve Crowley had had, and Ezra if anything looked to be worse off. Makavi went back to fetch the tray, and Crowley all but collapsed onto the bed; Ezra joined him with an undignified flop. They’d been awake less than half an hour and Crowley wanted to go back to sleep. Should probably eat something first, though.

“I hate recovery,” Crowley told the ceiling. It did no good to complain, but that had never stopped him before.

“So do I, but it will give us time to spend together,” said Ezra. Just like him, to look on the bright side when Crowley was trying to work up a proper snit.

“We’re going to have to explain to her, you know.”

“And apologise.”

Crowley flung his arm over his eyes. “That’s going to be difficult.”

“I’ll help you,” said Ezra archly. “All you have to do is say ‘I’m very sorry, Maka, and I’ll never do anything like it again.’”

“Nnnyeah, that’s the difficult bit. Given the same circumstances, I will _absolutely_ do it again.”

“Crowley,” said Ezra, sounding pained.

“Calm down, priest, we won’t get the same circumstances so you needn’t worry. But—can’t apologise for something I don’t regret.”

Much more softly, Ezra said, “Oh, my dear.” He took Crowley’s free hand in both of his own, and they stayed that way until Makavi came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, btw, we did say that Ezra's memory was swiss-cheesed.


	35. Chapter 35

They had just gotten the kids settled for the night when someone started pounding on the front door. “Go, I’ll stay in here,” Garnek said, and Droxi kissed him in passing. He wasn’t a martially-inclined person, and unlike a lot of guys it didn’t bother him that she was.

The door, when she cautiously cracked it, revealed nothing more threatening than Bongju Earthshatter. As soon as they laid eyes on each other, he said, “The Alliance broke Crowley out of prison a few hours ago. Miri’s called a guild meeting.” Bongju wasn’t known to mince words, but that was a little abrupt even for him.

 _I expected this, but not so soon, as the actress said to the bishop_ , Droxi thought. Aloud, she said, “Gimme two minutes to tell Garnek I’m leaving.”

The purpose of the guild meeting was, when it came down to it, to figure out how they could convince Command that they’d had nothing to do with springing Crowley—which, technically, _they_ hadn’t. It went on for hours, and not even Mirimë came up with anything more substantial than “We’ll tell them we pinky-swear.” Droxi dragged herself home in the wee-smalls.

A few days passed, during which she took pains to not do anything she wouldn’t have done before Crowley had met his priest. Wild rumors about what had happened in Orgrimmar circulated, naturally, but Droxi was inclined to believe Celebiriel’s version; Cele, who’d been close enough to get near the fight if not join it, was one of the most aggressively level-headed people Droxi had ever met.

That fact didn’t make her feel any better about being told Crowley had _killed himself_ , but she really couldn’t come up with anything that would have. An anxious ball took up residence in the pit of her stomach, and no amount of lecturing herself would dislodge it. Any reassurance she could come up with was overwhelmed by the memory of Crowley’s face, when he’d thought the priest was permanently dead. To get him back after that, and then lose him _again_...Droxi didn’t have to work too hard to imagine Crowley’s state of mind.

When she finally went to Dalaran, she didn’t go straight to the shop; being a spy didn’t exactly come naturally to her, but she wasn’t stupid. And, it had to be admitted, she was sort of scared to go in and find there wasn’t any word, or worse that the priest really was dead for good this time. But eventually her meanderings brought her around, and she stood in the street trying to ignore the tightening ball of anxiety.

She spotted no signs of a change in ownership, nor of mourning, so that was probably okay—but the priest being alive (if he was) didn’t mean Crowley had come back too. Even if he had meant to, sometimes people just _didn’t_.

Droxi took a breath, squared her shoulders, and went in.

The clerk, a human man, pretty clearly didn’t care for Hordies, goblins, women, or some combination of the three—she doubted he could tell she was a warlock—but Droxi didn’t really give a damn; he got the manager for her and that was all she needed.

The manager, the same one who had taken her message for the priest, ushered her over to the glove display, out of earshot of his clerk. In the midst of convincing her she should choose a pair, he passed her a letter. Droxi pocketed it and kept examining handwear.

She left with her new gloves, visited another two shops, and then went to sit in one of Dalaran’s handkerchief-sized parks. The bench she chose was in shade, and just happened to put her back against a solid wall.

When she unfolded the note, the handwriting wasn’t familiar. Droxi suspected the priest; there was something fussy in the shapes of the letters. They told her everyone was alright, spelled out a time and a place, and asked her to bring her friend in the red armor.

Droxi put the note back in its envelope and the envelope back in her pocket with shaking hands. She spent a few seconds wrestling with herself before giving up and letting the tears of relief fall.

* * *

Crowley had to admit that he was impressed by Mhorduna, and the Them more generally. Once they had word that Droxi had gotten the letter, all the plans fell into place smoothly.

He and Ezra went to Dalaran alone, on the theory that a large group, especially armed, would attract too much attention. As it was, Crowley had to wear a heavy hooded cloak; the Orb of Deception the Them had used to get into Orgrimmar hadn’t fully recharged yet.

The two of them wound their way through the streets slowly, leaning on each other, using Ezra’s staff as a third participant. Under normal circumstances Crowley would have expected to be feeling better by now, but he supposed it was logical that he was still so weak; trading away your lifespan _wasn’t_ ‘normal circumstances’. Knowing that didn’t make him enjoy it any more, however.

As they crept along the last stretch before the Legerdemain’s door, someone in the shop they were passing looked out, caught sight of them, and winked. Crowley muttered in Common, “Do you get the feeling we haven’t been as subtle as we thought?” It seemed like the entirety of Dalaran, or at least of the crafter’s district, knew who they were. Fortunately everyone approved—so he assumed or they’d have been caught long since. Obviously there were people even in Dalaran who didn’t care for Illidari, but the sheer force of Ezra’s charm appeared to have turned them around.

Ezra chuckled. “I wouldn’t know, my dear.” The door got closer, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to sit down. “I only see you, when you’re nearby.”

Crowley tried to put on a severe expression, though he had a feeling he was failing. “Yes, priest, and that’s a problem.” His _voice_ certainly wasn’t disapproving enough. They turned into the Legerdemain’s common room. “It’s just as well we don’t normally go into fights together. Alright, ready for stairs?”

“If I say no, are they going to disappear?” Ezra asked, sounding resigned. That was about what Crowley had expected; Ezra was even worse off than Crowley himself. He needed to _not die_ for several months at least.

“No, but I can _carry_ you,” said Crowley.

The kaldorei hunter sitting against the back wall let out a bark of laughter and turned, revealing herself as Siegrunë. She stood up. “You can fall, is what you can do,” she said. “Come on, master of tongues, let’s get you upstairs.”

Ezra didn’t move. “Go on, I’m right behind you,” said Crowley, trying to sound nonchalant. Ezra hesitated for another moment and then took Siegrunë’s offered arm. They went up the stairs even slower than he and Crowley had walked down the street.

Crowley followed, staying where Ezra would fall into him if he fell; he wasn’t at full strength but he was good enough for that. Before they were halfway up he was glad of the glacial pace—but neither Ezra nor any of his guildmates needed to know that.

By the time they reached their floor Ezra was panting, and Crowley was glad to see Mhorduna opening the door of their room; that was a few moments saved.

Ezra gave Mhorduna only the most perfunctory of greetings on his way to the sofa, which he dropped into like he’d been taken out at the knees.

“Sieg and I will wait downstairs,” said Mhorduna. “I’ll be back up before your friend arrives.”

“Yeah, thanks. Ask them to send up something to eat.”

When Mhorduna had gone, Crowley slung the heavy cloak over a chair and went to sit next to Ezra. “I’d rather rest than eat,” said Ezra, not sounding at all pleased about it.

“We had this talk last time. You need the energy.” Crowley could feel himself relaxing into the sofa; he knew in his head that the garrison was safer, but his gut didn’t believe it.

“I know, but we did eat before we left, and it’s not as if missing a meal or two is going to hurt me.”

Crowley let a pointed moment of silence pass before saying, “If you faint, I’m going to let you lie where you fall.” It was an empty threat and he couldn’t pretend otherwise even to himself, but he felt it conveyed his opinion.

Ezra said, “I won’t faint.” He sighed. “When we’re back to the garrison, I thought I’d do some training, if you’d like to join me.” The effort to sound more cheerful fell a bit flat.

“Let's worry about that when you can cross a room without breathing hard, yeah? If you really cannot eat, you should take a nap.”

Ezra slumped against him a little more. “I shall, but I won’t be recovering forever. I need to, to shape up. I can’t go on being so soft.”

He all but whispered the last word, like he was ashamed to say it, and Crowley held back a sigh. This again. “You can be as soft as you like.” He wrapped his arm around Ezra’s shoulders. “Doesn’t matter right now anyway.”

“I don’t want you to have to worry,” said Ezra muzzily.

“Yes, alright, but it’s not a problem right now.”

Ezra didn’t answer, having fallen asleep.

Crowley had the distinct feeling that trying to get up would provoke an unfortunate response, so he didn’t. It took a few minutes of careful shifting to get them into a comfortable position, or at least as comfortable as you can get when one of the participants is entirely composed of bony angles. That achieved, he settled down to think about what was to be done with Ezra’s conviction that he was somehow inadequate, and instead fell asleep as well.

* * *

A tray sat outside the room, and when Mhorduna knocked there was no answer. He listened carefully for a few moments, but didn’t hear anything untoward, and a glance through the door revealed an unmoving pile of limbs on the sofa. He tried the knob and discovered the bolt hadn’t been set.

Mhorduna took the tray inside and made himself comfortable in one of the plush armchairs, content to let Crowley and Ezra sleep for now. Only a few minutes passed, though, before Crowley stirred. It took him nearly a minute to consciously notice Mhorduna was there, and he didn’t manage to suppress his start of surprise. The whole thing was both amusing and a bit worrying; Crowley had a fairly bad case of the heightened vigilance that afflicted many Illidari and it wasn’t like him to, for example, forget to bolt the door. Mhorduna elected to assume it was recovery fatigue and keep an eye on him. “Good, uh, what time is it?”

“Almost time,” said Mhorduna. He kept his voice down out of deference to Ezra’s continued slumber. “One last time, I have to ask: are you sure your guildmates are safe? I can still have Sieg or Maka shadowmeld in here, and we’ve got a few more people in town.”

“Droxi knew from the beginning. If she were going to grass us up she would have done it by now. And you’ve met Celebiriel.” He shrugged, slightly impeded by Ezra’s sprawl. “If they’ve been caught, I don’t want you to throw your people between me and Sylvanas’s thugs.”

Mhorduna felt his lips thin. It wasn’t the time to explain to Crowley that _he_ was one of ‘your people’ at this point. Aloud, he said, “I’ve got a healthstone for you, just in case. Was Celebiriel the one who delivered the message for Ezra?” It certainly sounded like a sin’dorei name.

“Yeah. And as far as I can tell she got him out of Hastur’s trap, so.”

“I think I saw her in Orgrimmar. Try and get him up, they should be here soon.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Come on, priest, wake up.” He shook Ezra gently. Ezra responded with a disgruntled noise and a wiggle that buried his face in the side of Crowley’s neck. Mhorduna politely looked away.

“Cozy,” said Ezra, not very distinctly. “And I want some grapes.”

“You can have grapes, but we need to talk to people too.”

“Oh,” said Ezra. “Yes, that, of course.” A few seconds of movement later, “Oh, and hello.” That probably meant it was safe to look back, and indeed when Mhorduna turned Ezra was bent over the tray, searching for (presumably) grapes.

A few minutes later, someone knocked. The silhouettes were a goblin and an elf, and Crowley said, “That’s them.”

Mhorduna nodded and got to his feet. He didn’t expect trouble, but there was no harm in being prepared. Meanwhile Crowley went to open the door. The goblin—Droxi, he assumed—had faint traces of fel energy surrounding her, proclaiming her a warlock. The elf was indeed the woman he’d spotted in Orgrimmar, and who had delivered Crowley’s message; Celebiriel, then. She gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

Crowley closed the door behind them, whereupon the goblin said something sharp in Orcish. “Get down here,” Ezra murmured, as Crowley went to one knee.

Droxi slapped him. Mhorduna tensed, but Crowley just swayed with the blow. She said something more, burst into tears, and threw her arms around his neck. Crowley’s arms went around her in return.

“She called him a name,” said Ezra, sounding amused. “And...I thought you were dead. I’m sorry. You had better be.”

Celebiriel, meanwhile, had taken a seat. Mhorduna decided Crowley was in no danger of an imp to the face and sat down as well.

* * *

“I’m only here as a safety measure,” said Mhorduna. Ezra translated. “We’ve put too much effort into these two to let anything go wrong now.” Celebiriel nodded.

“I suppose we’ve never been properly introduced,” Ezra went on, on his own behalf. “Celebiriel—it was you, who took me out of that building?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then I have to thank you, and I’m in your debt.” He leant over to offer his hand, and she took it for a moment.

“You’re welcome,” said Celebiriel. She had a cool, even voice and more of an accent in her Orcish than Crowley did. “I like to think almost anyone would have done the same. And thank you, both of you, for getting that one out of Orgrimmar.” She jerked her chin at Crowley. He still had his arms around Droxi, and the poor girl was crying. “We couldn’t be seen to help him. As it is we’re under suspicion.”

Ezra relayed that, and went on, “I am sorry if we caused problems for your guild, but I simply couldn’t leave him there.”

Celebiriel shrugged. “Hastur will run out of favours to call in eventually.”

“Thank the Light you had a way to tell us what had happened,” said Ezra.

At that point Crowley got to his feet as Droxi wiped her eyes, and the two of them came to join the conversation.

“It would’ve been a heck of a lot more problems if you hadn’t busted him out,” said Droxi, sniffling a bit. “We’d’ve had to and then we’d really be in for it.”

Crowley sat down, and Droxi boosted herself into the last chair with a little hop that looked well-practiced. Ezra dug in his pocket; seeing Droxi had jogged his memory. He’d bought a new chain to hang Crowley’s coin from.

When he extracted the necklace, Crowley drew a sharp breath. “Have you had that the whole time?” he asked in Thalassian.

“I’m sorry, my sun, it slipped my mind.” Ezra saw Celebiriel’s eyebrows go up at the pet name, but the look on Crowley’s face was more important. He touched the coin gently but made no attempt to take it.

“I thought someone must have stolen it,” he said softly, and then shook his head and repeated himself, louder and in Orcish.

“I took it off you so no one else would,” said Droxi.

“When?”

“While they were arresting you. Not surprised you don’t remember it, kiddo, you were in bad shape.”

Rather than let Crowley think about that, Ezra held the necklace up a little higher. “May I?”

“Of course you may,” said Crowley. He bent forward a little so Ezra could reach to fasten the clasp. Ezra couldn’t resist letting a strand of hair slip through his fingers.

“See? What did I tell you,” said Droxi in an undertone.

“You weren’t wrong,” Celebiriel replied.

Crowley sat up and said, “Yes, alright. Now that we all know I’m alive, what’s the next step?”

“You can’t come back right now, that’s for sure. Half the Horde saw you fighting alongside the bluecoats,” said Droxi.

“We do have a safe place,” said Ezra. “Even if it isn’t where you want to be.”

“Well, it isn’t, but since the alternative is a cell waiting to be tortured to death I’ll take it,” said Crowley. “Droxi’s right, I can’t go back. Not while Sylvanas is Warchief and maybe not ever, depending on how she’s removed. Once she’s gone I might be able to plead my case.”

“Speaking of, there's a few things I oughtta tell you,” said Droxi. She hesitated for only a moment before continuing, “I’d say in private but I guess if it means what I think it means, your friends here are gonna know soon enough.”

Mhorduna looked a bit more interested at that, and Crowley made a ‘go on’ gesture.

“People’re saying that Saurfang is feeling out the rank and file, tryin’ to see who’ll stand with him if—”

“When,” Celebiriel put in.

“Yeah, OK, _when_ he moves against Sylvanas.”

Crowley nodded and slumped back in his seat. “When it comes to that, I’ll be there.” He took Ezra’s hand. “I’m sorry, priest, I have to.”

“I know,” said Ezra, trying not to sound unhappy about it. If Crowley didn’t feel obliged to go, he wouldn’t be himself, so there was no use in wishing. “In the meantime, we can use the shop for messages. I told Burton you’re not to leave emptyhanded.”

“We shouldn’t use it too often,” said Mhorduna.

Droxi nodded and said, “I’ve been using Northrend as an excuse too, but there’re limits to what I can sell. Anyway, got no idea what the timetable is, but we’ll keep you posted.”

“Don’t get caught,” said Crowley. Everyone turned incredulous gazes upon him and he shrugged in the way that meant he wanted to be rolling his eyes. Come to think of it, Ezra had seen other Illidari do the same thing. “I’m quite aware I’m one to talk, thank you, but we don’t need to have to put together another prison break.”

“Kiddo, no offense, but I have the sprogs to think of and I’m not ashamed to say they come before you,” said Droxi. “I ain’t gettin’ caught.” Ezra stumbled over _sprogs_ ; it had to mean 'children' but he hadn't encountered the word before. From the sound of it, probably Goblin in origin.

“Speaking of which, we’ve probably spent enough time here. I have a few things I managed to get out of your room before Blightcaller’s people searched it; I’ll take them to the _Fel Hammer_ in the next few days. I didn’t want to come to this meeting with any of your things on me, just in case,” said Celebiriel. “It’s not much, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright, I’ve got everything I need,” said Crowley. He coughed. “Thanks for saving what you could.”

“I hope Garnek and I were never this bad,” said Droxi, in a voice meant to suggest she didn’t mean it to be overheard while not actually being very quiet.

Crowley frowned at her. “I’m sure I can find out.”

She grinned back, unrepentant, and said, “Cele’s right, we should get going.”

“I must say, I hope that the next time we meet isn’t over crossed swords,” said Ezra. He leant into Crowley’s side; amazing that mere translating could be so tiring. “If it is though—it’ll do none of us any good to hold back.”

Unexpectedly, Mhorduna laughed. “That’s how it is. One day you’re sharing a drink, the next you’re on opposite sides. I’ll check for his things, sister, and Elune light your path. You as well, Droxi.”

“Sit up, priest,” said Crowley. Ezra did, not very pleased about it. Crowley stood and went to hug Droxi again, then went over to Celebiriel. “If he had died, he’d have _died_ ,” he said, and her eyebrows went up again. “So—I can’t ever thank you enough.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and offered her hand. The handclasp turned into a brief embrace. “Don’t get killed,” said Celebiriel as they parted.

“You neither,” Crowley replied.


	36. Chapter 36

Crowley materialised in Makavi’s garrison to find Ezra leaning on a wall despite no fewer than three anxious draenei attempting to help him. “Oh—here, come on,” said Crowley, taking Ezra’s arm. “Let’s go somewhere with a nice bed, yeah?” Ezra didn’t try to shake him off, so at least it wasn’t an attempt to prove he was all better. The draenei, looking relieved, took themselves back to whatever they’d been doing before

“Thank you, my sun,” said Ezra. “I didn’t want to start without you.”

“Clever of you not to try,” Crowley replied.

Ezra sighed. “I rather wish we hadn’t gone to Dalaran. It was so strange to be there and know I couldn’t stay.”

“You could have,” said Crowley. “I’m the one with a hunt on for me.”

“As if I would stay without you. Really, my dear, the very idea!”

“Didn’t say you would, just that you could.”

Ezra huffed indignantly. Crowley found it appallingly adorable. “I most certainly could not.”

“Well, who knows? If Saurfang really is planning to move against Sylvanas, things could change.” Crowley shrugged. “Or not. I can’t exactly prove I haven’t been leaking information to you.”

Ezra patted his hand and said, “It’s easily proven, my sun. We’ve never had the kind of advantage in a fight that that sort of information would provide. Command takes very little notice of us. It’s not as if we’re the Archangels.”

Crowley stopped mid-step; perforce Ezra did too. “Say that again.”

“I said that Command doesn’t take much notice of us, and a good thing too or we wouldn’t have been able to rescue you.”

“No, the Archangels. You said the Them never had an advantage, _unlike the Archangels_.”

“Well, I suppose I did, but I’m hardly a tactical expert.”

“No, priest, don’t you see?” Crowley set off again, a bit faster. “How did Hastur and Ligur always end up near you? How did Hastur get you out of Boralus? For that matter, how did Ligur find out about us?” He waved his free hand. “They’re working with the Archangels!”

They turned into the hall as Ezra said, “How could they? There’s nowhere they could exchange information.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Where did we just come from, Ezra?”

“Oh,” said Ezra. “But...we never saw them. Well, Ligur that once, I suppose, but he didn’t see us talking.”

“Ligur was a rogue,” said Crowley. He could all but hear the moving parts sliding neatly into their places. “Hastur still is one. Michael is a druid, which means cat-form. The Archangels have other druids, and I think a rogue or two as well. My sight’s better than yours for spotting lurkers but I’m not infallible—and let’s admit, priest, we weren’t always careful. There was plenty of opportunity for us to be seen together without knowing we’d been made. Especially if Hastur or Ligur or both were going to Dalaran regularly to meet with someone from the Archangels.” In his agitation he yanked the door to Ezra’s room open a bit too enthusiastically and had to catch it before it could bounce off the wall.

Ezra tottered to the bed as Crowley closed the door. “Ligur was hardly a patient man, my dear, nor is Hastur. Surely one or the other of them would have done something sooner.”

“Not patient, but they aren’t—Ligur wasn’t—they _weren’t_ complete idiots. They wouldn’t have wanted to start trouble in Dalaran if for no other reason than so they could keep meeting their contact there. And— _we weren’t careful_. Everyone in the crafter’s district knows about us, everyone in _Dalaran_ knows about us. Bloody Khadgar probably knows about us and he doesn’t even live in Dalaran anymore! Hastur and Ligur wouldn’t have even needed to see us themselves. ‘The Illidari sin’dora and the human priest,’ that’s not a combination you run into every day.”

“Well, if they found out in Dalaran they wouldn’t have had to talk to the Archangels,” said Ezra. His hands, clasped in his lap, had begun to work at each other.

“That doesn’t explain the rest of it,” Crowley exclaimed.

“The day Hastur took me from Boralus, Michael personally said she didn’t see anyone,” Ezra argued, as if it were evidence _against_ the idea.

It was one thing to have a theory like this; it was another thing entirely to confront the actual results. The human expression was _seeing red_ but Crowley didn’t see colours any longer. “I knew the Archangels were wankers,” he said, keeping his voice even by an effort of will. “I didn't know they'd sink so low as selling out their own people to the likes of Hastur.”

“I was a _member_ of the Archangels!” said Ezra. “They’re in the field constantly, missions, patrolling, chasing the Horde. I hardly had a week’s time off in the whole three months I was with them, and the roster changed almost completely.”

“Then it was an officer who sold you out. The only question is how many of them know.” He had no proof at all, but with a knife to his throat Crowley would finger Michael. Sneaking around having clandestine meetings was more her style, from what he knew of the Archangels’ leadership, than any of the other three. Paladins didn’t tend to be subtle and he’d seen both Uriel and Sandalphon fight; they were all about straightforward smashing.

“What I _meant_ —” Ezra stopped, drew a heavy breath, and started again at slightly reduced pitch and volume. “What I meant was that they don’t have the time. And Michael’s well-known. I’m sure any number of people recognise her no matter which form she’s using.”

“They’ve all got to have stones bound to Dalaran, everyone who was in the Legion campaign does, so they wouldn't have to worry much about travel time, and if it's something all the officers know about they wouldn't even have to make excuses. This makes sense, priest! The Archangels are in the game because they love the fight—just like Hastur and Ligur. What's a healer more or less when his life buys you more _fun_ in your war?” Crowley wouldn’t have been able to hide just how disgusted he was by the idea even if he’d cared to.

Ezra got to his feet. “Crowley, this—this can’t be true. People aren’t pawns or bargaining chips. Sometimes lives have to be spent for the sake of victory, but not for _fun_.”

“Ligur did. Hastur does. And they aren’t alone, though decent guilds won’t take that type. Why should it be any different in the Alliance?” Crowley waved his hands. “Alliance, Horde, it’s just names for sides. People are people, and some of them are rotten no matter which side they claim to be on.”

Ezra took two steps, his hands worrying at the hem of his tunic, and suddenly Crowley realised that the bite in his voice wasn’t anger; it was the leading edge of panic. “ _No_ , this can’t be. There’s no proof! There can’t be proof, this can’t _be._ ”

“Alright, alright, don’t,” said Crowley. Ezra didn’t back away, but his hands didn’t still until Crowley seized them. “Let’s ask for something to eat and then we can lie down for a bit.”

After a long moment’s pause, Ezra nodded.

* * *

Crowley made an obvious effort to keep the conversation light as they ate, and Ezra felt it was only polite to respond. By the time they’d finished, though, he felt ready to sleep for a week.

“I fear I need a little more rest,” he said. The few feet to the bed took a completely unreasonable amount of energy to cross, and he sat down with all the grace of a dropped sack of laundry.

“I’m shocked,” said Crowley, in a tone that waved a flag proclaiming he wasn’t shocked at all.

Ezra eyed him in half-feigned irritation; he looked not one whit abashed. “I’m going to lie down, but you should feel free to go out if you like. Get some sun.”

“Fft, if you think I'm going anywhere right now you have seriously overestimated how much better I'm feeling,” said Crowley, and took a seat on the other side of the bed.

“Then come here, my sun. Let me dream of you while you’re here.”

“Anything you like, priest,” said Crowley, and bent to take his shoes off. “I’m going to be roughly here for—a while, though. Suppose I’ll have time to learn to spot that starflower stuff.” He lay down, entirely too far away in Ezra’s opinion.

Fortunately that was easily remedied; Ezra rolled until he was half-draped over Crowley. “I’m sure you will. But don’t overexert yourself. I can’t wait for us both to have a bit more energy.” He kissed the side of Crowley’s neck, to make certain his meaning was quite clear.

“I don’t care how much energy we’ve got until we can soundproof this room,” Crowley grumbled. Ezra suspected him of hamming a bit, but probably only a bit.

“Really, my dear boy?” Ezra asked innocently. Exhausted or no he all but purred at the shiver that ran through Crowley. “I’m afraid that might take quite a while. But if it’s what you want…” He moved away.

“Good, you need the rest,” said Crowley, and this time he was _definitely_ putting it on; he never used such an overly-sweet tone otherwise. He covered his face with his arm as if he were planning to sleep.

Ezra laughed, and if it bordered on a giggle he rather failed to care. “You’re such a good boy, giving me what I need.”

There was a pause.

“You’re not playing fair, priest.”

“Don’t be absurd, my dear. I only wanted to tell you what a _good boy_ you are.” Eloquent silence radiated from the other side of the bed. “So kind, and considerate, and brave, and good.” Ezra made no effort at all to keep the laughter out of his voice.

In an exceedingly strangled tone, Crowley said, “Have I told you before you’re a menace?”

“How in the world could I be a menace to someone so strong and brave?”

“You know exactly how!” said Crowley indignantly. “Now come _back_ here.”

Ezra felt his point had been made, so he did as he was bidden, and if he ended up rather more on top of Crowley than he’d been before he didn’t see that there was any problem. “I thought you wanted a soundproof room,” he said, aware that the expression on his face could most accurately be called a grin rather than a mere smile. “Or…”

“Or what?” asked Crowley warily.

Ezra stretched to speak directly into Crowley’s ear. “I could gag you.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley. Ezra bit the lobe of his ear. Crowley took a deep breath and held it for a second. “You’re the one who said you were tired. And it’s not like you’re any quieter.”

“I am tired, but I can always find some energy for you, and I’m not the one who worries about being overheard. I have to uphold my title. They quite admired me for sticking to Thalassian.” Not that there tended to be _many_ coherent words.

“I don’t want either of us to be overheard.” A moment passed. “So I guess you’ll be needing that gag, then.”

Ezra smirked into the side of Crowley’s neck. “I’ll find a nice clean handkerchief,” he said.

* * *

They put something of a dent in Ezra’s collection of handkerchiefs—of _course_ he had a _collection—_ over the fortnight it took for him to get back to full strength. Crowley recovered more quickly physically, but he didn’t much object to lazing about; it had been some time since he’d had the leisure for it.

As much as Crowley wanted Ezra to recover, he also...didn’t. Recovery meant Ezra going back into the field, and the only thing that kept Crowley from arguing about that was the knowledge that Ezra wouldn’t be swayed. Crowley did his best to ignore the idea and enjoy himself.

Aside from that, the only major blot on the time was the way that more often than not he woke in the middle of the night gasping for breath, with the weight of metal on his wrists and a phantom headache pressing into his temples. He knew Ezra worried about it, but he didn’t. Eventually the formless eternity of his prison cell would politely take its turn amongst his other nightmares; only the recency made it the star of the show for the time being. But Ezra had never before seen him have a nightmare at all, so Crowley supposed it made sense that he’d be alarmed. He was too light a sleeper to avoid being woken, too, though Crowley had to admit that warm arms and quiet reassurances helped.

The day Ezra was due to leave, Crowley dawdled over getting dressed. No doubt it was a petty way to express his displeasure but he didn’t care very much. His borrowed shirt still lay on the bed when Ezra, not only dressed but packed, bustled back into the room.

“Mhorduna will be here any moment,” he said.

“I can tell time,” said Crowley shortly.

“Crowley,” said Ezra, with an edge of reproach.

He sighed and turned. “They’re taking one of your weather-witches, yeah?”

“A tidesage, yes. How anyone can _think_ of a sea voyage without one is quite beyond me.”

“Just—don’t make me come after you.”

“It would be far too dangerous, and besides, I’ll be on the Lord Admiral’s ship,” said Ezra. “What can go wrong?”

“Everything, now you’ve asked the question.” Crowley made to pick up the shirt.

“Just a moment, let me heal those,” said Ezra.

Crowley looked down at himself. Not all the marks scattered across his chest, shoulders and neck were in his line of sight, but he could feel they were there. Just before Ezra’s hand made contact—Ezra had no need to actually touch him for such trivial healing, but it wasn’t as if Crowley were going to complain—he said, “No, leave them.” They'd heal soon enough on their own and Crowley didn't _want_ them gone, not when Ezra was leaving. On the other hand he wasn't sure he wanted to give the Them more fodder for teasing. “Well. Erm. The ones that won’t show.”

“I’m not sure I get to decide,” said Ezra, and instead of Crowley’s arm or shoulder his hand lifted to cradle Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley had turned into the touch before he could stop himself, and at that point why bother to move away? “You know what Mhorduna’s shirts look like on me.” Like _sacks_ , was what they looked like; Crowley was trying to work out how he could pay a tailor to at least expand his wardrobe, even if it would be a while before he could give Mhorduna all his clothes back.

“They look wonderful on you, and even better _off_ ,” said Ezra. His thumb came to rest at the corner of Crowley’s mouth and Crowley heroically resisted the urge to turn a little more and nip it. “But that’s not what I meant. These will take hardly any effort to heal, and I’m not sure I can keep the magic from spreading, getting them all at once.”

“Oh. Well, nevermind then.”

“It can’t hurt to try,” said Ezra comfortably, and rested one finger on a bruise that hadn’t quite decided whether it wanted to be under Crowley’s chin or on it. The warm pulse of magic was tiny, nearly imperceptible, and when Crowley checked again the mark sucked into the inside of his wrist was still there. “Oh, lovely, it did work,” said Ezra, and spent a few moments dealing with the others that would show once the shirt went on.

Then they spent a few moments longer before going out to the main hall. For once they’d managed not to keep Mhorduna waiting; he arrived nearly five minutes later, with a rough cloth bag in one hand.

* * *

When Ezra had departed for Boralus and they had the hall to themselves, Mhorduna pulled a chair away from the long table. “Alright, what did you want to talk about that you couldn’t mention in front of your husband?”

Crowley heaved a sigh and took a seat of his own. “It's no secret, or anything, Ezra just won't hear of it. There’s no point in talking around it. I think the Archangels are working with the Horde. Specifically Hastur, and Ligur before he died,” he said.

Mhorduna sat back in his chair, struggling with surprise. Crowley let him. “That’s a serious accusation,” Mhorduna managed eventually.

“I know, and I have nothing in the way of hard evidence,” said Crowley. “But there are many things that make more sense if they were plans, not—by chance?”

“Coincidence, or happenstance,” said Mhorduna; Crowley nodded.

“You’re better placed to look into it than I am, or Ezra, and...it upsets him.”

“I think you’d better tell me what evidence you have.”

It didn’t take long, and Mhorduna thought Crowley was right: there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be explained by coincidence, but taken all together it made a pattern, one that Mhorduna didn’t like the look of. “I’ll look into it. It’ll be slow, I’m already on the Archangels’ bad side. They think I am keeping them from using Ezra as their healer—as though he has no choice in the matter whatsoever.”

“If this is true,” said Crowley, and he didn’t need to finish the sentence. Wouldn’t have needed to for any of their brothers or sisters.

“You know what happened when Hastur and Ligur took him.” Crowley nodded. “Michael and Uriel found his body after that. They said they were hunting for easy targets and stumbled upon him, but now I wonder. And Michael’s been trying to keep track of him, she always says she wants him as a healer. I wish you had even a little bit of proof.”

“I don’t think much proof exists,” said Crowley grimly. “I know Ezra isn’t the first person Hastur and Ligur hurt, but I haven’t any idea how to find the others. Don’t even know whether they were all Alliance.”

Mhorduna felt his jaw set. “If they’re still alive to find. We were surprised that Ezra returned, if I’m honest.”

Crowley hissed in disgust and said, “I heard some of the stories—those two loved to brag. I don’t blame anyone for not wanting to come back after that.”

“We were worried about him. We kept finding him crying, or just sitting staring at nothing. I was at my wits’ end with how to help him. Then suddenly he started smiling again, and no one understood why till I found out about you.”

“Did he tell you how we met?” Crowley asked. Mhorduna was glad to hear his tone lighten a bit.

“No, never asked,” he replied. “He was ready to fight me over you, I decided he knew what he wanted.”

“I was patrolling in Darkshore, and he was out on the dock in Auberdine, crying over Teldrassil. He didn't know I was there till I had a glaive at his neck. And he wonders why I worry,” said Crowley.

“I remember that—I was worried sick because he was so late. But afterwards, he was better. Not everyone is so lucky.” There was, for the two of them, no need to go into any more detail on what happened to those who weren’t. “But that’s why we need real proof. This isn’t a bit of advance notice of large-scale troop movements, this is selling people to be tormented and killed. In a way it’s worse than what we fought.”

“At least the demons haven’t any choice,” Crowley agreed. “I have a problem believing that anyone would sell their own comrades to such a fate, but it does happen. I don't know if I can have hope that something will be done about Hastur no matter what kind of proof we find—Command likes him, and to be honest it helps that he's Forsaken. But at least if we cut off his sources of information he'll have a harder time finding targets while we plan something more permanent.”

“We’ll avenge the ones we couldn’t save,” said Mhorduna. He stood up and went to the drinks cabinet for a bottle and two glasses. “And in the meantime, let’s drink to them.”

“If you’re expecting an argument from me you’ll be waiting a while,” said Crowley. It was quite clearly a deliberate quote, but Mhorduna let it pass; they all poked fun at Crowley often enough and there was no reason not to let him return the favour.

When Mhorduna handed over a glass, Crowley sniffed it. “I’d never have thought humans made good wine.”

“Most of the guild prefers beer, but Ezra insists on having wine as well. He likes this one.”

“He’s sentimental,” said Crowley. Mhorduna wondered if he realised just how fond he sounded. “He had this with him in Arathi.”

“Arathi? He was only there for a few days—they didn’t keep him long after the Horde were beaten.”

“Yeah, well, the Horde in general and me in particular. He found me hiding under a tree, trying to work out how to run for it with no hearthstone and broken ribs.”

Mhorduna winced. Broken ribs were a special kind of hell, and running was the last thing you wanted to try. “He bought a lot of wine when he got back.” Which reminded him of a question he’d been meaning to ask. “There was an attack on Boralus not long after that—were you in the city, wearing our guild tabard?”

“Erm. If it helps, it was Ezra’s idea,” said Crowley, a bit sheepish. Mhorduna shrugged. “I got sent into the city to pick up strays, and I found Hastur and Ligur trying to kick him to death. Got him away from them but he wouldn’t hear of leaving them loose. He gave me his tabard so they’d think I was Alliance.”

“Them again.” Mhorduna swirled his wine around thoughtfully. “He wasn’t even on orders that night. He just does rounds, checking on the poor families. It’s strange—those two usually like to be in the middle of the action.”

“Couldn’t resist a whole district full of people with no weapons,” said Crowley sourly.

“Or, if your idea is correct, they _knew_ he would be there. Did you see any sign they’d attacked anyone else?”

“Come to think of it, no. Just the two of them in an alley trying to discorporate him.”

Mhorduna made a _there you are then_ gesture and Crowley nodded. “When did you know?” Mhorduna asked, after a moment.

“I was sitting in the transport back to Zandalar after that attack, and I remember thinking _I am in so much trouble_.” Mhorduna sputtered a laugh into his glass. “So I guess that would have to be it.”

“That sounds about right,” said Mhorduna. “I have to thank you, anyway. We could have lost him—he could have chosen not to return, or let his shadows take him. Now he seems to have found a balance.”

“Not fond of the shadows, I have to say, but you’re right he seems to have got a better grip on them.”

Mhorduna nodded and finished the remainder of his wine. “I should be going, so you’ll have to finish the bottle yourself.” He set his glass down and offered his hand; Crowley took it. “And the shirt moved, just so you know.”

Crowley sighed. “Never as stealthy as I think I am,” he said.

* * *

Once Mhorduna had gone, Crowley went back to the room (Ezra’s room? _Their_ room?) to look through the bag. It didn’t hold much, a few items of clothing and his various hearthstones, but two things _were_ in it that he hadn’t let himself hope for: several of the blindfolds Ezra inscribed for him, and the chess set.

He set the board up on the desk (definitely Ezra’s desk) and placed the pieces, even though there was no one to play against.


	37. Chapter 37

Thirteen days later, Crowley was pacing.

There was nothing else he could do. The Alliance expedition of which Ezra was a member was lost; likewise its Horde counterpart, though Crowley was admittedly hard-pressed to care that something unfortunate might have happened to Nathanos Blightcaller. The Lord Admiral’s ship hadn’t been heard from since shortly after its departure from Kul Tiras, and no one had any idea what was going on out in the middle of the Great Sea.

Every few minutes Crowley reminded himself that there was absolutely nothing he could do in Kul Tiras, Dazar’alor, or Zandalar in general except get himself killed, and then he’d have to deal with Mhorduna _and_ Ezra.

He thought that he’d know if Ezra were dead, but he of all people could imagine any number of terrible fates that didn’t include being dead so it wasn’t exactly helping his peace of mind. Nothing much was helping his peace of mind, not even wearing one of the shirts Ezra had left here.

He’d given up sleeping two nights ago when it had become clear that any dream was going to take a turn for the worse at the earliest opportunity. He couldn’t make himself eat; drinking as much as he wanted to would undoubtedly hasten his newfound mortality’s final breath. Sitting still led to wondering if he might after all still be in Orgrimmar. So he was pacing.

The draenei seemed to be optimists; they kept bringing him meals. He couldn’t remember what he’d said to the last one except for a vague feeling it hadn’t been polite. Crowley paced to the window, stood there, and dug his hands into his hair.

The sound of a voice crept into the room from the hall. Despite Crowley’s complaining the soundproofing here was fairly good (when the door was firmly closed) but it made him spin in place to look anyway.

Three long strides got him to the door and he yanked it open, and Ezra looked up at him. Crowley had to brace himself on the doorframe, lightheaded with relief.

* * *

Ezra’s excitement at being part of Lady Jaina’s entourage had begun to sour when the Lord Admiral’s ship had spotted the Horde vessel carrying Nathanos Blightcaller; it had turned to terror when the sea opened up at the behest of Queen Azshara’s magic and swallowed Horde and Alliance alike.

The first day or so on what had used to be the sea-bottom was a blur of injured sailors and scurrying about to evade Azshara’s naga. Things had calmed down a bit when Lady Jaina and Genn Greymane of Gilneas had secured a refuge with the ankoan, odd fishy people who seemed to take the enmity of the naga as a sign they should offer help to the new arrivals. Ezra and the other Darnassian speakers had had to do a bit of translating, as the ankoan didn’t speak Common but could make themselves understood in the elvish language; he found it pleasant to be useful in some other way than as a medic. Then it had been several days of boredom and raw fish for every meal—which Ezra had found quite appetising, but it grew tedious quickly—while the arcane magic users wrestled with the teleportation wards Azshara had erected. They’d managed a portal at last; Ezra didn’t pretend to understand it, but the setting-up ritual had been very impressive to watch.

Portal or no, however, the perennial shortage of good healers had struck again, and Ezra was not released with the first wave of people sent back to Boralus. The perpetual standing tidal wave that surrounded Nazjatar frankly unnerved him and he knew poor Crowley had to be frantic, and the presence of Uriel of the Archangels in the same infirmary did nothing to set him at ease. At least they seemed to be ignoring him, the look on their face suggesting that they felt doing a healer’s work was beneath them.

But Ezra wouldn’t have been able to do his job without the ability to put distractions out of his mind when he needed to, so it wasn’t until the third time Alicia said his name that he really noticed. He blinked up at her. “You need to go get some sleep,” she said briskly, as he got to his feet.

“That’s right,” said an unexpected voice; Ezra and Alicia both turned to discover Uriel, their pupilless eyes softly glowing. “You two are still needed here and you’ll be no use if you pass out.” Despite their slight accent the draenei’s voice was cool and assured, and Ezra felt his heart sink. He wondered if he’d be able to at least get a _message_ to Crowley; if Alicia were here it meant the guild knew where he was.

Alicia cocked her head to the side. “Oh, no, you’ve misunderstood,” she said, as if she were speaking to a small child. “I’m here to relive Ezra, not you. I think Mhorduna’s planning to send Makavi as relief as well, when she’s free, but who knows when that will be? Come on, Ezra, tell me about the patients on the way to the portal.” She took him by the arm as she spoke and drew him away from Uriel; by the time her little speech had finished they were out of easy conversational distance and from what Ezra recalled Uriel wasn’t the type to mount an undignified pursuit.

He heaved a sigh. “Thank you.”

Alicia rolled her eyes and said, “They just want to get back to their war—making more work for _us_ , is what it amounts to.”

“I’m terribly grateful all the same,” he said fervently. “Has anyone told—”

“Mhorduna was there three days ago and according to him your little secret was climbing the walls,” said Alicia. “We haven’t sent anyone to tell him because after two weeks, what was a few hours more or less? He won’t be happy till he sees you anyhow.”

“Oh dear,” said Ezra, and walked faster.

* * *

Ezra’s current fatigue was the normal kind, the kind that comes from working hard. That did not make him like it much better, and when his lack of focus made him bump into a chair in the main hall he couldn’t help an annoyed exclamation. He was at least not so agitated as to use foul language. A few steps later he stood at the door and was reaching to open it when someone inside did it for him.

Ezra knew he looked dreadful; he hadn’t had a proper bath since leaving and his ‘adventure’ had surely left its mark. Crowley, however, did not look much better. He was clean, and that was the best that could be said for him. Ezra found he didn’t much care; Crowley was _here_ , which made up for any amount of mussed hair and too-pale face.

Crowley braced one hand on the doorframe as if he were using it for support. The action made his shirt—Ezra’s shirt, too short for him at both hem and cuffs—fall open, revealing most of his chest. The fel marks stood out starkly on his skin. “Are you alright?”

If anyone had asked, Ezra would have said he didn’t know why he acted as he did, but it would have been a lie. It wasn’t only pleasure at seeing Crowley again; he just couldn’t quash the desire to protect Crowley from stray glances, nor the hint of sheer possessiveness. Marked or unmarked, Crowley’s bare chest wasn’t a sight for the masses, for anyone but Ezra.

He stepped forward, drawing the door closed behind him as he went, and Crowley obligingly backed away. Ezra dropped his bag, took Crowley by the shoulders, pivoted them both where they stood, and pushed until he had Crowley firmly between himself and the door. It didn’t take much coaxing to make Crowley bend enough that Ezra could kiss him.

* * *

It kept occurring to him at the oddest times that if he wanted to stop Ezra from moving him, he could; Ezra’s many talents did not include wrestling, or indeed any kind of physical fighting. But Crowley didn’t see any reason not to let Ezra direct him. If he had his back to a solid surface and Ezra’s weight pinning him there, he knew exactly where Ezra was.

Besides, it led to kissing.

Eventually they had to come up for air, and Ezra said, “Oh, my dear, I’m perfectly alright now.”

“What the fuck happened?” It wasn’t perhaps the _calmest_ thing Crowley had ever said, but he felt that he was entitled. He took a second to settle his arms a little more firmly around Ezra. “No one knew what was going on, or if they did no one told _me_.”

“Queen Azshara,” said Ezra. “She...she opened the sea. Nazjatar is, well, one couldn’t say it’s _above_ the water, but the water is held back.” Crowley wasn’t old enough to remember the reign of Queen Azshara, not by half, but he’d heard plenty of stories and he didn’t have to have personal experience to know he didn’t like her. She’d tried to help the Legion, for personal power, and that was all the insight he needed. “The mages needed time to get around her magic to open a portal back. I’m so sorry, I know you must have been worried.”

“I was mostly sure you weren’t dead,” said Crowley. “Turns out, not so reassuring as you might expect.” He tried to make a joke out of it; by the way Ezra’s arms tightened in turn, he felt pretty confident he’d failed.

“Well, I desperately need a bath,” said Ezra. “Why don’t we go get washed up? I’m sure I look a sight.”

“That is—the last thing I care about right now, priest.”

“I care,” said Ezra firmly. “Ask someone to send up some food, my sun, while I gather a few things.”

“ _We_ will gather things and ask for food. Every time I let you out of my sight you get into trouble.”

“I’m hardly going to object to spending more time with you.” Ezra went up on his toes to kiss Crowley’s cheek and then stepped back; Crowley kept the noise of protest behind his teeth by main force.

Ezra picked up his bag and turned, his gaze falling on the desk. “Your chessboard!” he said, in undisguised delight. “Celebiriel got it back for you, how lovely.” He took a step closer. _White bishop across from black king's rook, two knights threatening..._ “Is this from our very first game?”

“If you recognise it, then yes. I wasn’t sure I remembered.”

“It’s exactly right,” said Ezra. After a moment, he went on more softly, “You must have been so worried.”

“Like I said. Mostly sure you weren’t dead.” Crowley turned his head and said to the far wall, “But there are a lot of other possibilities.”

He might have known Ezra wasn’t going to let him get away with that; he didn’t resist the hand that turned him back. “My dear, I promised to be careful.”

“Things can go wrong no matter how careful you are.”

“And they did, but I wasn’t hurt and I’m back now, so let’s go have a bath.”

* * *

It probably wasn’t very charitable that Crowley was still mildly surprised by evidence that non-elves were civilised. The garrison’s bath chamber was excellent evidence—comfortable benches along the walls, hooks for clothing, and a large sunken tub with piped hot water. He hadn’t been using it, since soaking in the bath often led to rumination and that had been ill-advised the last few weeks.

Ezra started the tub filling; Crowley sat on a bench to better take his shoes off. “Warm water is probably the best thing about civilisation.”

“I quite agree,” said Ezra. He pulled his tunic and shirt off; Crowley watched shamelessly, shoe-buckles forgotten. “My joints and I do love a good soak, and of course it’s just the thing for a hangover.”

“You’ve said that before,” said Crowley, momentarily diverted. “What’s a hangover?”

Ezra paused. “You know, when you drink? Fuzzy head, uncertain stomach, the light hurts your eyes?”

“If that happened every time I drank I wouldn’t drink,” said Crowley, feeling his eyebrows rise.

“Well, it’s not every time. It happens when you drink too much, especially if you don’t drink water as well. You’ve never had a hangover?” He stepped out of his trousers and (of course) folded them.

“'Fraid not.” Crowley bent to his shoes again. “It explains a few mornings with Droxi, though.”

Ezra laughed and said, “And you never thought of asking?”

“You’ve met Droxi,” said Crowley, as Ezra went to the washbasin. It had warm water as well. “Do you want to ask her pointed questions when she’s already in a bad mood?”

“I suppose not.”

Crowley undressed as Ezra scrubbed himself down, rinsed, and came to climb into the tub. Once they were both settled, Crowley said, “So, tell me about Nazjatar. It’s...what, not underwater any longer?” Azshara’s kingdom had fallen to those who resisted the Legion, and taken half the continent under the waves with it. No one knew exactly how she and the other naga had survived, nor why they’d become naga.

“Yes and no,” said Ezra. “It’s open to the sky, but there’s water all around like a wave that never breaks, a wall of water. You can walk up to it and see the fish on the other side.”

“That sounds exciting. At least you didn’t need to grow gills.”

“What a dreadful thought. Come here, my sun.”

Crowley didn’t need to be asked twice, and besides it had dawned on him that he hadn’t had significant sleep in a bit over two days; if he didn’t want the warmth to knock him out he needed something to keep his attention. They ended up in a tangle that would have been awkward on dry land, but Ezra was reasonably buoyant even if Crowley was not. “Your hair still smells like the sea,” he said, not very distinctly. Ezra’s hand petting down his ribs was attention-getting, but not in fact much help in staying focussed on anything _else_.

“I’m glad that’s all. Everything was seaweed and naga.”

“Where you have Azshara, you have naga. Never been a fan, me.”

Ezra hummed absently, his hands continuing their lazy movements.

“I’m starting to suspect talking isn’t what you had in mind,” said Crowley.

Instead of laughing, or making a suggestive remark, Ezra just made another agreeable noise. Crowley hadn’t slept, and almost fainted from sheer relief not half an hour ago, but he’d have had to be _much_ less on his game than that to not notice things going sideways. And if there was one thing he’d learnt over the last—nearly a year, he could hardly believe it—it was that trying to be indirect and subtle about these things just led to tears, and probably shadows. “Alright, what’s wrong?”

“What?” Ezra asked.

Crowley sat back a few fingers. “I said, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Ezra fluttered. Crowley strongly suspected that the people responsible for teaching him that response were beyond reach, and that was, all things considered, probably for the best. He had not gotten to be Illidari by being _temperate_ in his reactions to people he loved being injured. He made a noise of his own, this one as skeptical as he could manage, and for a few moments they were quiet.

Ezra looked down, and sighed. “I still feel so _wrong_ ,” he said, like a confession.

* * *

“None of that, now,” said Crowley. “Or rather, trying to tell you how to feel is a fool’s game, but do you want to know how I feel?”

Ezra nodded, though he still couldn’t look up. His gaze had caught on his own marred flesh like a fish on a hook.

“I think that these—” Crowley brushed his thumb over one of the marks “—are battle-scars just like any other. They are signs that someone tried to kill you and _failed_. It doesn’t matter that they’re words, they could be pictures of ducks and they’d mean exactly the same thing. You lived through what those two did, and that is _all_ these mean.” He didn’t sound careful, or gentle, or soothing, only matter-of-fact, and that was what let Ezra raise his head again.

“How did you know I was thinking of that? I...I thought it was alright, since I showed them to you, but lately I can’t stop thinking about it.” He reached for Crowley’s hand.

“Well, I’ve known you almost a year, and it wasn’t long before that, yeah? At a year, especially the first year—it’s not surprising.” Crowley, of course, would know.

“Tell me, my love, will it ever stop?”

Crowley sighed, and Ezra’s heart sank. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known, really, and it had been ridiculous to expect a comforting lie from Crowley of all people. “It’ll hurt less, most of the time. Sometimes it’ll come back, just as bad. But it’ll fade again.”

“I can keep from thinking about it if I keep busy.”

“Yeah, that only works for so long, trust me.”

“I _do_ trust you,” said Ezra. “I like it when you touch them. I can imagine it’s only my own skin.” He took a deep breath. He’d never have imagined being able to tell this to anyone. “I saw Teldrassil, and it was ruined, just like me. And I regretted it. I wished I had gone on, instead of coming back.”

He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been expecting, but laughter hadn’t even been on the list—just a chuckle, but sincere. “I hope you don't believe you're the only one who ever had that thought, priest. You don't decide to eat a demon thinking you're likely to live through the process.”

For some reason that broke the tension that had been living in Ezra’s chest, or at least loosened it enough that he could ignore it. He leant back and pulled Crowley along with him. “If my scars mean I’m brave, what do yours mean about you? You chose that, for the hope of doing good. Even if it was only vengeance that moved you.”

“I did this to defeat the Legion. And then the Legion was defeated, but I was still _this_. And Sylvanas was making the Horde into something I didn't want to be part of. What was left?” His shrug moved them both enough that a tiny wave slipped up the side of the tub and subsided again. “You were kind to me.”

Ezra flattened his hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades. “Droxi was kind to you too. It’s obvious she cares about you.”

“Droxi’s a warlock,” said Crowley bluntly. “She uses the demons just as much as we do.”

“Not everyone in your guild is a warlock.”

“Mirimë sees no reason to hate us, but that doesn’t mean she’s eager to make friends with everyone in the guild.” Ezra didn’t quite understand how that was meant to work, going into battle with people who weren’t one’s friends, but perhaps Mhorduna was even more atypical than he had thought. “The rest of them—they do what they’re required to do, sometimes even a bit more, and they aren’t cruel. The healers heal me. The druids and shamans think I’m an affront to the natural order—not wrong. The monks think I’ve embraced my negative emotions, also not wrong. The paladins and the priests think I’m an abomination, if sometimes a useful one.” _And also not wrong_ wasn’t spoken, but Ezra heard it clearly nonetheless.

“Nonsense,” he said. “It only shows that they don’t understand.” He twined a lock of hair around his finger; Crowley’s blindfold slipped a bit. “Turn around, my dear, I’ll fix this for you.”

Crowley did, and by some minor miracle neither of them put weight anywhere unfortunate during the process. “People don’t like us,” said Crowley as he went, in the carefully flat voice that went with his false smile. “Even Arthas’ servants, you can say they had no choice other than killing themselves again. We chose it.” Ezra did not fill the brief silence, concentrating on the knot. “You can’t blame them, priest.”

“I can and I do,” said Ezra. “The Light loves everyone, even those who reject it. If they don’t remember that, they’re bad priests.” He knew perfectly well that he hadn’t managed to convince Crowley of anything, but starting an argument wasn’t likely to help either. For a few moments neither of them spoke. “Alright, there, that’s done. Now you needn’t think I haven’t noticed how worn out you are. You need to eat something.”

“Not my fault. We brought food, I know we did.” Crowley turned around again and leant back as Ezra reached out to pull the tray closer.

“We’ll eat, and relax a bit more, and then go and rest.”

“There’s a bit of a problem with that plan, though,” said Crowley. “I don’t want to sit up.” He was all but submerged.

Ezra laughed and craned his neck enough to scan their plates. He didn’t know the proper name of the sliced fruit, but he’d seen Crowley willingly eat it so he picked up a slice. “Here, my love.”

Crowley huffed and said, “That wasn’t a hint, but thanks.”

“Well, if you don’t want it,” said Ezra, trying not to laugh. He didn’t move.

“Didn’t say I didn’t want it, just you don’t have to feed me.” He nipped the slice out of Ezra’s fingers.

“You said you didn’t want to move, what else was I to do?”

Crowley swallowed. “Make me move my lazy arse regardless. Never going to be shut of me now.”

“Good,” said Ezra. “I don’t think we should stay here much longer, but we can come back tomorrow.”

“If I nod off here you’ll have to make sure I don’t drown. I didn’t sleep well.”

Ezra strongly suspected that _well_ really meant _at all_ , but it didn’t seem worth arguing.

* * *

Ezra declared himself tired of the bath when it became clear that Crowley was, at a generous estimate, two minutes from losing his battle with sleep. They dressed enough to not scandalise anyone they ran across in the trip to their room and started back, and for once it didn’t seem as if Crowley were abbreviating his own pace to match Ezra’s.

“I should probably thank Makavi again,” said Crowley as they went.

“It will be some time, I fear,” Ezra replied. “She’s off to Nazjatar soon, if she hasn’t gone already. There are never enough healers and Command wouldn’t let anyone leave without a replacement.”

Crowley nodded but didn’t reply. By the time they reached their room he was all but dragging his feet and he sat down on the bed with very little grace. “I’m not getting undressed again,” he said.

“Pity,” said Ezra, and Crowley hiked one tired eyebrow at him. “Lie down, my dear. I can read while you sleep.”

Only a chapter later, Ezra decided that it was safe to slide carefully out of bed. He needed to make a few arrangements; Crowley was quite correct that it had been nearly a year and he intended to mark the occasion. But he didn’t stay away long, not wanting to risk Crowley waking up alone.

With his errand accomplished, Ezra took a moment to change into sleeping clothes and lay down again. He read for a while longer before putting his book aside in favour of watching Crowley sleep, and barely noticed slipping into sleep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Naga:** Used to be elves but now are fishy-lizardy people with tails rather than legs as a result of a curse. Queen Azshara was helping the Burning Legion but large chunks of her kingdom got Atlantis-ed and she cut a deal with the Old Gods to survive and have the power to take revenge. The naga have lived in and on the edges of the Great Sea ever since. They aren't nice people.
> 
>  **Ankoan:** Also fishy people, taller than murlocs and bipedal unlike naga. Can apparently breathe both air and water. There isn't actually any canon on what they speak; one assumes they have a language of their own but the naga speak Darnassian or something closely related so they'd probably be able to get along in that too. We are here pretending that languages don't change over the course of multiple thousands of years...
> 
>  **Arthas' servants:** The death knights were people killed fighting the Lich King, who then raised them as intelligent undead under his control. Their beginning story is about them breaking away and joining the fight against him.


	38. Chapter 38

Crowley woke to the sound of someone knocking. Two good nights’ sleep had gotten him mostly back to normal, but he rarely refused the opportunity for a nap.

He extricated himself from Ezra’s grasp and glanced through the door. Somewhat to his surprise, the person outside wasn’t a draenei; from the height and short ears, a human. He cracked the door just as the person raised her hand to knock again. “What? If you need the priest he’s asleep.” There was a limit to how polite he was prepared to be to someone who’d gotten him out of bed.

The woman took a half-step back (Crowley heaved an internal sigh) and said, “I’m here with the things Master Ezra wanted, but I can wait if he’s not available.” Crowley was no great judge of accents in Common, but she sounded more like Ezra than like Stormwind humans. Someone from Boralus then, but what had Ezra been sending for?

“I’ll tell him,” said Crowley. “I’m sure the draenei will feed you if you ask.”

“Oh. Ah, of course. Thank you,” she said. Crowley waved the thanks off and closed the door again.

He went back to the bed to sit on the side of it and ran his hand back through his hair. “Are you awake?” he asked, softly enough that if the answer was _no_ Ezra wouldn’t be disturbed. Ezra rolled in his direction, flung one hand across the space Crowley had been occupying, and made a noise that was equal parts protesting and forlorn. “Maybe you should _be_ awake,” said Crowley, a bit louder.

“Mmmhh,” said Ezra.

“Come on, wake up.” Crowley had no idea what time it was, other than ‘after dark’, but he felt reasonably rested even with his broken sleep so Ezra should be capable of coherence.

Ezra mumbled again, shook his head, and said, “Is something the matter?”

“Not answering that till I’m sure you’re awake.”

“You’re absurd,” Ezra grumbled. “Of course I’m awake. Was someone at the door?”

“Yeah, didn’t get her name though.” Crowley checked. “She must’ve gone to get something to eat, she’s not out there. She said she brought the things you wanted and she could wait. What’re you ordering, anyway?”

Ezra sat up, abruptly moving much faster; Crowley watched in mild surprise. For someone who wasn’t enthusiastic about sleep, Ezra usually took more convincing to stop doing it. “Oh, just a few things. You should put on something nice.”

“I don’t have anything nice,” said Crowley. “Didn’t have much to begin with and Birti didn’t fetch any of it. The best I can do is clean.”

Ezra stopped for a moment, a shirt in one hand. “That hadn’t occurred to me, we’ll have to do something about it. But clean will do.”

“You’re up to something,” said Crowley.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Ezra sweetly.

Ezra could be infuriatingly close-mouthed when he wanted to, and proceeded to prove it as they got dressed. When he didn’t stop at regular clothes and picked up his robe, however, Crowley stopped moving. “You need to explain what we’re doing, priest.”

“I thought we’d go for a ride,” said Ezra.

“I’m not supposed to leave.”

Ezra pulled the robe over his head. Slightly muffled, he said, “Mhorduna told _me_ not to leave when I was recovering, but he didn’t say anything like it to you.”

“It’s still dark,” Crowley pointed out, in what he felt was a very even tone.

“Then it’ll be a night ride,” said Ezra.

“I don’t have—weapons, armour, I even lost Mhorduna’s glaives,” Crowley protested.

“We’ll think of something,” said Ezra, and picked up his gloves.

Crowley stared at him; Ezra gazed serenely back. “I want it on the record that I objected to this plan,” said Crowley at last.

“Oh, splendid. Come on, then.” Ezra swept out the door. Crowley only hesitated a moment before following. He didn’t care for horses, but he’d certainly done worse than ride one because Ezra asked him to.

* * *

The messenger had not, it seemed, gone for something to eat; she re-entered the hall as Ezra emerged from the room. He had to search his memory for a moment. “You’re Lyra, aren’t you, Maria’s daughter?” he asked. She nodded. “Well, my dear, I must thank you, you’re very prompt. I wasn’t expecting you for another day at least.”

“Everything was ready,” said Lyra. She seemed a trifle distracted and Ezra realised why when she glanced past him. “We only had to pack the last few things.”

“Of course. Lead the way, then.”

She did; Ezra made small talk to keep her from being obviously skittish with Crowley. It hadn’t even been two years since he’d left civilian life himself, but he supposed he’d gotten used to the ‘threat’ of Illidari quickly—though he doubted it helped that Crowley was sin’dorei.

Crowley, meanwhile, had clearly decided to humour him, and followed with no comment to the armoury attached to the barracks and training yards. When they arrived, however, the sight of the crate broke his silence. “What is going on?”

“Open the crate and find out, my sun.” Ezra pretended not to hear Crowley echo the sentence under his breath.

Crowley approached the crate as if he were worried it was waiting to attack and spent a few moments picking apart the knot in the rope that tied it shut. The lid wasn’t otherwise fastened; Crowley set it aside and brushed back the top layer of wood wool.

“Lyra, it must have been a tiring trip, do you need to eat something, or rest?” Ezra asked, as Crowley pulled open the first package.

“I need to oversee the delivery, Master Ezra,” she replied.

“You’re just like your mother, so responsible.”

Crowley, meanwhile, had excavated two bags like the one he’d lost when he was arrested, and was in the process of discovering a pair of greaves. He set them down and swept more wood wool onto the armoury floor, revealing cuirass and vambraces and assorted other pieces of armour, and down in the bottom glaives.

Crowley straightened, a glaive in one hand, and said, “What is all this?” He sounded honestly baffled and Ezra pushed away a surge of sadness.

“You’ll have to make sure I got all the measurements right,” he said.

“Measurements? What—this—” Crowley set the glaive down. “You had all this _made_ for me?”

“You had no equipment, you just said so yourself. What if something had happened?” Ezra switched back to Common and said, “While he tries that on, why don’t you show me the rest?”

“The _rest_ ,” Crowley repeated.

“Unless you need help?”

A moment passed before Crowley said, “No. Go, I can put on my own armour.”

“Splendid,” said Ezra, and ushered Lyra away.

Fortunately, Lyra appeared to have spent enough time around elves to have an idea of the likely range of Crowley’s hearing; she waited until they were well away before saying, “Master Ezra, what was he doing in your room? Illidari, a blood elf—is it safe?”

Ezra firmly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She couldn’t be blamed for not understanding. “It’s perfectly safe, my dear. He’s been working with my guild.” That stretched the truth, but Ezra honestly didn’t think it stretched it very far. “It’s a special assignment, and I’ll have to ask you to keep it to yourself.” It wouldn’t do to have all of Boralus hear about the sin’dorei demon hunter in an Alliance outpost.

Lyra didn’t look as if she understood, but Ezra didn’t doubt her when she said, “You can count on me. Not a word.”

The corral was only a brief walk away, and as they approached Ezra was very pleased to see two new beasts, not part of the garrison’s complement: his gryphon Deryn, and a windrider tethered where it couldn’t reach the gryphon nor vice versa.

It had been some time since Ezra had ridden Deryn, and the gryphon spent a minute or two pretending not to notice him as punishment for his scandalous neglect; gryphons were intelligent, sociable beasts and did not like to be ignored. A bit of scratching at the base of its neck, near the line where white feathers gave way to golden fur, restored him to its good graces.

A few minutes later, Crowley emerged from the barracks, resplendent in his new armour: black of course, with touches of crimson. For a moment Ezra considered suggesting that they forgo the ride in favour of returning to their room—but no, Crowley needed a bit of an adventure and Ezra could do with some diversion himself.

“Priest,” said Crowley as he approached, “why do you have a windrider?”

“You’re asking the wrong question, my dear, it should be ‘Why do _I_ have a windrider?’”

“You bought me a windrider,” said Crowley. Ezra nodded. “Why?”

“Well, you remember the shop in Dalaran where we hired the carpet—Burton had a sideline in other mounts, but he’s decided to concentrate on his main focus instead. We didn’t have any other similar business in a neutral area, so the poor thing was going to be, erm, disposed of. And I couldn’t let that happen, could I?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I’m assured he’s been trained for Illidari,” Ezra went on blithely. “I wasn’t told his name, though, you’ll have to give him one.”

After another of those baffled pauses, Crowley said, “I’m not good at names.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Lyra, my dear, I think you can consider your duty discharged.” She blinked at him in confusion and Ezra shook his head and repeated himself in Common. “You should get some rest before you start back.”

Lyra smiled and said, “Now that everything’s been delivered, Master Ezra.” She nodded politely to Crowley and went off towards the keep.

“I told her this is a special assignment,” said Ezra. “We can trust her not to let the cat out of the bag. I won’t have all of Boralus knowing you’re here.”

“That is not even close to the first thing that sprang to mind. Suppose it should have been. Word would get back to Hastur eventually.” Crowley took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t take all this. It must have cost you—” He made an expansive gesture.

“Nonsense. The windrider was underpriced; they were happy to sell him rather than have him put down. The armour and glaives were hardly cheap, but they’re excellent quality and it’s not as if I do anything else with the money.”

“Have I mentioned you’re a menace?” said Crowley. Ezra bounced on his toes in delight. “Alright. I need a second to introduce myself.”

The windrider sniffed at Crowley’s outstretched fingers with a delicacy that sorted oddly with its shaggy fur and leonine head—which, after a moment, it thrust pointedly under Crowley’s hand. “Oh, now I’ve got two of you,” Crowley said to it. “Yes, yes, alright.” He began to scratch as directed, and the windrider’s eyes drooped.

“He likes you already,” said Ezra. “Now how about that ride?”

* * *

It took only a few minutes to get the windrider and Ezra’s gryphon into their tack—of course there was tack, Ezra never did anything halfway. “Alright, now, I’d rather not fall, and that’s going to be on you, mostly,” said Crowley. He had never claimed to be a great rider, and it had been some time since he’d been on a windrider. But he ended up in the saddle, out of the way of the leathery wings, and they set out.

Ezra exchanged salutes with the gate guards and started down the road that led away west. Crowley had only the vaguest notion of the lay of the land around the garrison and no particular idea of their destination, but he didn’t much care.

“We’ll be on this road for some time,” said Ezra as it led them into the trees. The draenei kept a stretch around the garrison walls clear, but left to its own devices the land here was forested. “We won’t need to fly. Any patrols we encounter will be from the garrison.”

The road was wide enough that they could ride side by side, at least as long as they didn’t meet anyone coming the other way. The windrider and the gryphon gave each other sidelong looks but neither seemed inclined to start anything and that was all Crowley asked. “How long is some time? I haven’t been more than a few steps outside the walls.”

“Six hours or so, at a walk, or so I’m told,” Ezra replied. “Did you like your gifts, my sun?”

“Of course I did. You really didn’t have to go to this much trouble.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” said Ezra, a hint of scolding slipping into his voice. “I commissioned everything weeks ago and sent a message that I was ready to take the delivery the evening I got back here. How do you expect to join Saurfang with no armour or weapons?”

Something called in the branches and Crowley glanced up. “Whatever that is, it sounds like it isn’t enjoying itself. In any case, I don’t know what choice Saurfang is going to have other than marching on Orgrimmar. It’s symbolic. And frankly Illidari aren’t suited to that sort of fight.”

“But you’re going to go anyway.” Crowley shrugged. “Well then, you need to be able to defend yourself.”

“I can literally blast things with _my eyes_ , priest,” said Crowley, though he knew it was a token protest. He couldn’t do it very often, and as they had learnt there were ways to stop him. It had been fifteen days in that cell, and he didn’t have to be dreaming to feel the weight on his eyes and the pressure circling his head; all it took was thinking about it too much. It had hardly been the worst thing about those two weeks, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant.

From the glance Ezra threw him Crowley deduced he was thinking of much the same thing, but what he said was, “Does everything fit you, then?”

“I’m going to have a talk with an armourer when I have the chance, but you’ve got a good eye. Even the glaives are balanced.”

“I shall give your compliments to the makers, then. They were delighted at the challenge. I’m sure we can find someone who can enchant it for you, if you like. I didn’t know what you might prefer.”

Crowley had no idea what he might prefer; he’d never had the budget for enchantments. But he didn’t say that, because Ezra had turned his head to look at him straight on. “You’ll look marvellous in battle.”

“You’re biased. You got to pick everything out.”

Ezra laughed and said, “All I picked out was the colours. And then you said it had been almost a year and, oh, it seemed appropriate.”

They’d been riding for about two hours when Crowley began to notice that the road was less well-tended. Draenor’s huge, ever-present moon gave plenty of light for his eyes, and was even adequate for Ezra’s, but the canopy overhead was growing thicker; Ezra pulled light from the air and set it on his staff. It made them a beacon, which made Crowley a little nervous.

A few minutes later they approached a grove that was even darker than the rest of their surroundings; the slight breeze wasn’t nearly enough to account for the creaking that drifted out of the gloom. They reined their mounts to a stop and exchanged unhappy looks.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Ezra, calmly enough.

“There’s something moving,” Crowley agreed. He couldn’t get a good look at it; it smudged into its background. But… “Whatever it is, it’s huge.”

Ezra leant over and took the windrider’s bridle with one hand as the creaking got louder. Crowley dismounted in a scramble, and just as his feet hit the ground a looming figure pushed out into what light there was.

The ancient was three times his height at least and it didn’t look well; Crowley could see corruption in the energy that flowed through it. Its footfalls shook the ground. Normally he would have tried negotiating, but the treant began to moan like a gale through branches. “Stay back, and make sure there’s not another one.”

A shield sprang into being around him and Ezra said, “It seems to be the only one.”

“Keep checking,” Crowley snapped. He was going to teach Ezra to keep an eye out if it sodding well killed him.

“I _am_. I know how to do this,” said Ezra, a trifle testy.

“Could have fooled me,” Crowley muttered as he advanced.

The ancient’s bulk made it slow, and whatever had turned it aggressive seemed to be distracting it as well; Crowley mostly had to keep moving too fast for it to react. He caught battering branches a few times and its roaring made his ears ring, but he had a dedicated healer and the treant didn’t. Much as he disliked using brand-new glaives against wood, they did damage, and even tiny hits added up.

Finally the ancient gave one last roar, threw its arms into the air, and slumped into immobility. Crowley watched it for long enough to assure himself it wasn’t going to fall over before he sidled closer and prodded it gingerly from the limits of his arm’s reach. Nothing happened. “Well,” he said, “that was invigorating.”

“It _was_ the only one,” said Ezra triumphantly.

“And a good thing, too. Two of them and we’d have been better off running for it.” In the dark, on a mount he didn’t know very well down a road he didn’t know at all...Crowley was damned glad they hadn’t had to. He took the windrider’s reins back and the beast shoved its massive head into his chest. Crowley staggered, caught himself, and scratched it again; both mounts were agitated and they could hardly be blamed. At least the dead ancient didn’t smell of blood.

“He likes you,” said Ezra. “What are you going to name him?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you name him? Leave it to me and he’ll end up ‘Spot’.”

“Crowley, he isn’t spotted.”

“I told you I’m bad at names.”

Ezra huffed at him. “He’s very regal, I think. How about Rhion?” He stepped a little closer, leading his gryphon, and patted the windrider’s shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“It’s better than Spot. Yes, lovely, Rhion it is.”

“I wasn’t asking _you_ , my sun,” said Ezra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Windrider:** Flight-capable riding beast, rather manticore-like. Mostly lion-shaped, but with a scorpion tail and flying-squirrel-style wings between its forelegs and its body.
> 
>  **Ancient:** Mobile, sentient trees; they would be ents if that wouldn't get Blizz a cease-and-desist from the Tolkien estate. Mostly they hang out with druids but there are some that just live in the woods in various places.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. Life kinda happened last week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art is our second piece from [harleygirl897](https://www.instagram.com/harleygirl897/).

The rest of the ride passed uneventfully. The sky was beginning to lighten when they crested a last ridge to follow the road down to the harbour.

A natural curve in the shoreline protected the cluster of buildings from storms coming off the sea. Docks lined the shore; from what Ezra could see, all the boats moored to them were fishing vessels. There used to be a naval presence here, but no longer; it had been years now since Draenor hosted the front lines.

“So what’re we in for?” Crowley asked, as they ambled down the slope.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been either,” said Ezra. “We’ll find out. There’s the sea, anyway. And I asked them to set up a tent.”

They passed a neat little guardhouse and the guard looked out, saw Ezra, and waved them on. Before they got to the harbour proper Ezra turned right, southeast along the shore, taking them further away from the sounds of early morning activity. The few draenei they passed studied them with curiosity but no alarm, and after a few more minutes the docks ended. Their mounts’ paws shushed through the sand of the thin strip of beach.

“Before we leave we should tell them about the ancient,” said Crowley. “They’ll want to check, make sure there aren’t any more in that state.”

“A good thought.” The requested tent was present and accounted for, on the grass rather than the sand. Ezra dismounted gratefully; he enjoyed riding, but it could be tiring. He was pleased to see posts to tether the mounts, and even fish for them—he assumed that hadn’t been sitting out unguarded for long.

“How long are you staying?” Crowley asked as he dismounted, a bit more gracefully this time. He was trying very hard to sound offhand, and six months ago Ezra might even have been fooled.

“Today of course, and tomorrow, but after that...the war is still going on, so I’m not sure.” Much though he wanted the answer to be ‘as long as you like’. “Mhorduna will send for me when I’m needed.”

They got settled as the sun rose over the sea. The sounds of the working harbour drifted faintly up the shore, but no one ventured in their direction. Ezra was glad of that; Crowley seemed to find new people trying and the whole point of this expedition was to relax.

First things first. Ezra retrieved their provisions from the saddle pannier in which he’d transported them. “Time for a picnic, my dear.”

“Can’t have you wasting away,” said Crowley.

Ezra sat and patted the blanket beside him. “I shouldn’t think there’s any danger of that. Come here and eat.”

Crowley sat and bent to poke through the available food. He waved a hand in the direction of the sun without looking. “The light here’s different. Feels different.”

“It’s rather blue. Everything here is a bit blue.”

Crowley hummed agreement. As Ezra had come to expect, he took about half as much food as Ezra thought he needed. Fortunately there was a solution to that; Ezra speared some of the cold spiced catfish with his fork and held it up. “Here, try this.”

“I can feed myself.”

 _Yes, but you don’t,_ Ezra thought. Aloud, he said, “Of course, my dear, but try this, it’s excellent. I gave the recipe to the cooks.” He gave Crowley his best hopeful look, and Crowley took the fork away from him with an air of humouring his whims. Ezra was quite willing to be humoured, in a good cause.

Crowley chewed dutifully, swallowed, and said, “Yes, very good.”

“If you like it I’ll split it with you, then,” said Ezra cheerfully. If the state of his eyebrows was any indication, Crowley knew perfectly well that he’d been played, but he didn’t say anything. “And when we’re done eating?”

“Wouldn’t mind a swim, if there’s nothing lurking in the water,” Crowley replied. “The draenei will know.”

“I asked while I was arranging this little escapade. The warships have gone but it’s still a working port, they make sure there’s nothing major.”

“Not major means something different to a ship than it does to my personal toes,” said Crowley.

“It’s perfectly safe.”

“If I lose a toe I’m going to remind you you said that.”

“We don’t have to swim. We could find something to use as targets and you could practise with your new things.”

Crowley snorted. “I’m bored of war.”

“Well, I did bring a book.”

“Of course you did.”

Ezra gave him a quelling glare; Crowley smirked in return, unquelled. “I _meant_ that I could read, if you want to nap.”

“Not gonna nap if you’re reading, I’d miss it.”

“We have all day, we can do both. And even more.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Ezra was struck with a few images of what ‘more’ might consist of, and a blush rose in his cheeks.

After the briefest of pauses, Crowley said, “Not too much more, in a tent. Let’s start with a swim, I’ll risk it.”

“If that’s what you prefer,” said Ezra peacefully.

* * *

Crowley was out of his armour when he noticed that Ezra, who’d had less to take off, was worrying at his hem. “I’ll take off my shirt if you take off yours,” he said, as casually as he could manage; Ezra inexplicably appeared to like the sight of his bare skin. Crowley had given up trying to understand it, but he wasn’t above using it.

Ezra hesitated for a moment longer and then began undoing his laces.

“If it makes you feel any better, I'd bet that none of the draenei can read Orcish,” said Crowley as he hauled his own shirt over his head by the back of the collar.

“It isn’t only that, actually,” said Ezra. He pushed aside the flap of the tent and Crowley followed him out. “I’m afraid I just, erm, don’t like other people seeing you with your shirt off.”

Now there’s an odd thought. “I doubt they’re looking, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

The sand began only a few steps from the tent. It had not had time to collect the sun’s heat, and Crowley rather enjoyed the feeling of it under his feet.

“Oh, you should do as you like,” said Ezra. “Only I just realised and I wanted to tell you.” The water, when they reached it, was cool but not uncomfortably so. “It’s still like a dream, that you love me back.” He sounded much too earnest.

“We've established we're both mad for each other, priest, don't start,” said Crowley. “Or I'll have to start whinging about demons again and no one wants that.”

To his satisfaction, Ezra laughed, and moved closer to thread his arm around Crowley’s waist. “I thought you said I couldn’t kiss it out of you.”

“My fiendish plan is working,” Crowley replied, with a perfectly straight face.

“Oh, and here I’ve fallen for your wiles again. What exactly was your plan?”

“Well, if I told you it wouldn’t be very fiendish, would it?”

“Mmhmm,” said Ezra, and put on an attitude of deep thought. “Is this the one where you tempt me away from battle with things that are more fun?”

“Could’ve sworn this one was your idea, actually,” said Crowley. He was far enough out now that the water had reached his thighs; he paused to steel himself for the next step. _Pleasantly cool_ for his feet was likely to be rather bracing on certain other body parts. “But your plans can’t be fiendish, of course.”

“Of course not!” Ezra exclaimed in mock offense. “I’m the nice one.”

“No argument there.”

It would have been easy enough to dump Ezra into the water by himself, but not as much fun; Crowley turned, got a good grip on Ezra’s shoulders, and used his own weight to topple them both. It probably wouldn’t have worked if Ezra had had a moment to see it coming, but Crowley had long since learnt to take advantage of surprise and they went over in a great splash.

They both surfaced laughing. Crowley was back on his feet and scraping a stray lock of hair out of his face before he realised that his blindfold had fallen off. “Damn it,” he said, and cast about for it, slightly hampered by not wanting to face Ezra.

“What—oh,” said Ezra. “Do stop splashing, my dear, we won’t be able to spot it.” They both stood looking down into the water for a few moments, and then Ezra splashed himself. “I have it.” Crowley held out a hand but Ezra ignored it. “My eyes are closed,” he said. “Are you sure you want it, all wet?”

“We’re covered in saltwater anyway.”

“So we are.” With unerring aim Ezra laid his empty hand on Crowley’s cheek and went up on his toes. The kiss was brief, but Crowley wasn’t complaining. “It tastes good on you. Now here, put this back on.”

As he tied the ends of the strip, Crowley said, “You know it’s not you, yeah?”

Ezra nodded. “I do wish you felt you could show me. You must know it wouldn’t change how I feel.”

“I don’t like it,” said Crowley, a bit sharper than he had intended. “Anyway you can open your eyes.”

Ezra sighed, but fortunately for Crowley’s mood he didn’t pursue the subject. “Well, don’t I get a reward for finding your lost property?”

“That depends on what you’d like.”

“I think another kiss would be just the ticket.”

“I’ll kiss you whenever you like,” said Crowley, before considering what a tendency to hedonism might do with that statement and thinking better of it. “Well, within reason.”

“Come here then.”

Not being an idiot, Crowley did.

* * *

The sun wasn’t yet at its peak when they sloshed out of the water again. “Let’s take a nap,” said Ezra, as he handed over a towel.

“You’re going to sleep on purpose? Who are you and what have you done with my priest?”

“It was a long ride, and then we swam. I need to rest before we go back. And the whole point of this trip was to relax.” Ezra spared a wistful thought for ways to relax that were already off the table.

Crowley bent to retrieve his shirt. “I wasn’t arguing.”

“Righto, then. You can have a blanket in the doorway if you like but I’m going to sleep in the shade.”

“You could use more sun, if you ask me,” said Crowley as he smoothed down his cuffs.

Ezra nodded absently, eyeing his own shirt. After a moment’s thought he decided to leave it where it was; he found the light breeze quite pleasant. His damp braies were less so, and he held his towel around his waist with one hand while he undid the laces with the other. “Could you hang these on one of the tent ropes for me? I don’t think I’ll require them for a nap.”

Crowley’s eyebrows went up. Ezra didn’t know how Crowley had managed to get the idea that he was prudish, but it was always entertaining to disabuse him of the notion. “Hand them over,” said Crowley. “If you’re very polite I’ll even fetch them back when they’re dry.”

Ezra beamed at him. “That would be lovely, my sun.”

“It was meant to be a threat,” said Crowley mildly, as he ducked back out.

It really had been a long ride; between that and the sun’s heat caught in the tent it didn’t take Ezra long to fall asleep. He woke some unknown time later feeling a bit stifled, and discovered that Crowley had twined around him. His attempts to free himself without disturbing Crowley met with failure; Crowley’s groping hand landed on Ezra’s chin. “Stoppit,” he mumbled, and Ezra laughed.

“It’s afternoon. We could get up and go out.”

Crowley yawned and unwound himself a bit. “You should read,” he said, not much more articulately. “What time of year is it here, anyway?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Ezra replied cheerfully. The weather hadn’t changed much since he’d started spending significant time in the garrison and the length of the day seemed consistent. “Now would you be so kind as to fetch my things?”

By now Ezra knew what it looked like when Crowley was suppressing a laugh. “Do you think you’ve been polite enough for that?”

“And after I’ve been so careful not to distract you,” said Ezra in mock offense. He wiggled a bit.

“I’m not sure you understand what those words mean,” said Crowley, and Ezra had to kiss him. A short but entertaining interval later, Crowley sat up. “I’ll be right back.” Ezra let him go reluctantly, but he really did want his clothes.

A moment later Crowley returned and tossed a bundle of cloth into Ezra’s lap. “Hours yet till sunset,” he said.

“We’ll have plenty of time to read, then,” said Ezra.

“Speaking of tempting the enemy with pastimes that are more fun.”

“Oh, nothing of the sort. I’m indulging myself.”

“I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thine eyes,” said Crowley, in a voice that suggested he was quoting something, “and moreover I will lie down and let thee read to me.”

Ezra looked up from his laces. “That’s terribly old-fashioned phrasing, my sun, but very well-spoken.”

“It’s from a play. I’m astonished you’re not familiar. I’ll find you a copy, you’ll love it.”

“Oh, if you please, but could you recite a bit more?”

“I don’t know all the parts, priest,” said Crowley tolerantly.

Ezra made a disappointed face. “Well, perhaps we’ll be able to see a play sometime, or find someone who knows the sagas.” He had been intrigued by the orcs’ oral semi-histories since Crowley had first mentioned them, but he’d only been able to unearth the most glancing of references in Alliance-affiliated libraries. He resumed his seat and reached for his bag to retrieve his book—another rather spicy novel, as those seemed to be most of what he could find in Thalassian. “Lie down so I can read.”

Crowley did. As he was settling into place he said, “Stop if your voice gets tired.”

Ezra smiled down at him. “I’d never get tired of reading for you.”

“Not you, your voice. There’s a difference.”

“I could lecture for hours, and I shall if I’m not stopped. Now, get comfortable.”

“I’m quite comfortable,” said Crowley. “May never move again.”

* * *

That, as it turned out, was a bit ambitious, but they passed the afternoon very pleasantly. Crowley didn’t quite fall asleep again, tempting though the prospect was, but he did drape his arm over his eyes.

As the sun sank towards the horizon, painting long shadows, they got up to pack their things away. Ezra walked down to the harbour to report on the ancient they’d dispatched while Crowley saddled the windrider; it didn’t object overmuch to having its tack put back on, at least not once he provided recompense in the form of scratching.

The gryphon and the windrider, having spent all day near each other, seemed to have come to an arrangement or at least a detente.

It took far less time to fly back to the garrison than it had to walk the other way, even with a stop midway to let the animals rest a bit. They landed a judicious distance from the walls rather than give the draenei a fright by flying over; Crowley did not care to be within range of people who were both frightened and armed.

They handed their reins off to a groom at the stables and went back to the room. Crowley found he still shied from thinking of it as _their_ room, even in the privacy of his thoughts. He knew he was being absurd, but knowing didn’t do much to help.

“I should wash up before I get into bed,” he said. They were both still slightly salty, though at least the sea had washed away the sweat of his fight with the treant.

Ezra set his bag down on the desk and turned. “The basin, or do you want to go to the bath?”

“That depends.” Crowley folded his arms. “Are you coming with me?”

“As you wish, my sun,” said Ezra.

“Then this is going to take a lot longer.”


	40. Chapter 40

“You’re certain you feel up to this?” Mhorduna asked.

Ezra tried to sigh unobtrusively. Mhorduna was only worried. “I’ll be fine,” he said, for approximately the seventeenth time. “It’s a bit late to worry about it now, anyway.”

By his estimation he had only a few minutes before he needed to get onboard the ship—and while he couldn’t deny that another sea voyage felt a bit risky, given how the last one had gone, he thought it very unlikely that Queen Azshara would decide to uncover _another_ part of the seabed out from under him.

“We saw you in Dazar’alor,” said Mhorduna. “You didn’t look fine, and you’re likely to need the shadows for this.”

“I’ve had plenty of time to practice since then.”

“Calm _down_ , boss, these island trips are like climbing a tree,” said Siegrune cheerfully. “The master of tongues can handle it in his sleep.”

Ezra fought down a blush at the title, and refrained from saying that it was likely to be a bit more complex than she was implying. In theory, yes, it was get to the island, find the azerite, take the azerite, leave. In practice, animals exposed to azerite for too long were often aggressive, and that wasn’t even mentioning anyone who lived there already, or the possibility of meeting a group sent by the Horde for the same purpose. With only three of them going onto their assigned island, they’d need his extra offensive capabilities if they did have to fight.

“I’ve avoided these island expeditions long enough,” he said, instead of any of that.

Mhorduna sighed in turn, but whatever he meant to say was overridden by the call to board.

Ezra spent some of the short voyage in his tiny cabin, negotiating with the shadows. They’d been quite cooperative since the Faire, and unexpectedly nice, and he wanted to be very sure that state of affairs would hold.

**We are not nice. We are the shadows. We just happen to like how much of a crazy bastard you are.**

Privately, Ezra considered how much they sounded like Crowley when anyone tried to compliment him, and giggled.

* * *

As they approached their anchorage, Ezra stood at the rail to take in the situation. “Those elementals look unwell,” he said, waving his hand at the moving figures, tiny with distance, on the thin stripe of beach.

“Yes,” said Drumii, in their odd voice. They always sounded as if they were speaking into an empty pot, a side-effect of the magic that had raised them from the dead at the behest of the Lich King. “It’ll give us something to warm up on.”

“I’m sure we can handle it,” said Novanne, even as she slid from her human form to her lupine one. Like many worgen she preferred it for situations where she might have to enter combat. Her darkglare hovered beside her, its single huge eye slightly glowing. Ezra found darkglares rather unaesthetic even by demon standards, but there was no denying they had useful offensive abilities.

“Yes, indeed,” Ezra replied. **Time to let us out to play** , the shadows murmured. Ezra took a deep breath, and did.

* * *

Droxi boosted herself onto the crate that sat near the rail and looked out at the approaching shore. Trees, bushes, and vines rioted in a mass of green that extended nearly to the water in spots. “This is going to suck,” she said. Beside her, Rukhbar grunted agreement.

“No visibility,” said the orc. “If the bluecoats show up we’ll have to step on them before we notice.” He looked as if he wanted to spit.

“At least we won’t be here long,” said Celebiriel as she walked up. With Crowley thoroughly unavailable, she and Droxi had ended up working together more often; Mirimë knew that Droxi wouldn’t complain about working with Illidari. “The azerite is concentrated, but there’s never much of it. I’ve done this three times and it’s never been more than a half day from landing to casting off.” She leaned on the rail as well, on Droxi’s other side. “But I’ll tell you one thing, the bluecoats are nearly guaranteed to show up. They can detect it just as well as we can.”

At that, Rukhbar did spit. “Honorless.”

“Only most of ‘em,” Droxi said, willing herself not to glance at Celebiriel.

“If you say so,” Rukhbar said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

Droxi busied herself conjuring healthstones as the ship’s crew brought them in to anchor, since their little party didn’t have a healer. What they did have was Rukhbar in his heavy armor, forming the point of their wedge as they made their way into the jungle. Having a heavy fighter along meant Droxi didn’t need her voidwalker; instead her imp Volnar capered at her side, eager to throw fireballs at something. As the one who didn’t need to go into melee she carried the little magical device that pointed them to concentrations of azerite.

They’d been at it for about two hours, with nothing more exciting to show for it than a brief scuffle with a few small elementals, when Celebiriel said, “Hold!”

Droxi and Rukhbar stopped. “What?” the fighter rumbled.

Celebiriel stared off into the vegetation, or more likely _through_ it. “Alliance,” she said quietly. “Three of them. A dwarf, two humans—no, a human and a wolf.”

“Do they know we’re here?” He unslung his shield from his back and drew his axe.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Then let’s give them a chance to demonstrate their honor,” Rukhbar said. For a person his size, wearing such heavy armor, he could move very quietly when he put his mind to it. He pushed through the undergrowth in the direction Celebiriel had been looking. She and Droxi followed.

They got very close before Rukhbar finally miscalculated and broke a fallen branch underfoot. The three bluecoats’ heads turned in surprise, and he charged.

Droxi couldn’t get a good look at first, but when the two Big Folk cleared her line of sight, Rukhbar was engaged with a dwarf in plate whose eyes glowed ice-blue: a death knight. Droxi grimaced. In her opinion, dead things should _stay_ dead. Meanwhile Celebiriel dodged around a darkglare; its wolf-woman mistress stood a bit behind. Droxi met her eyes just as the other warlock’s spell bit into her. It wouldn’t do much damage at once, but the slow drain would build up all too quickly. She reached for fire and looked for the third bluecoat, to see if they were a healer she'd need to deal with, and there he was: a human man, wreathed in shadows, beginning to float.

Crowley’s priest.

 _Oh, hell_ , she thought.

* * *

“That way,” said Novanne, looking down at the detector. They had dispatched the elementals on the beach quickly, but the creatures had been too small to yield much azerite. Now they were in the jungle proper, surrounded by tangled green walls. The air was laden with moisture, so thick it seemed difficult to breathe.

Drumii said, “I don’t like this. You can’t see more than a few yards.”

“I’ll be delighted to leave,” Ezra agreed, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure there was nothing coming up their backtrail.

“From the look of this it’s a big deposit,” said Novanne, waving the detector in illustration.

A branch snapped and they all turned to look. A split second later the undergrowth exploded into a burly shape wearing plate armour and wielding a one-handed axe, charging at Drumii. Ezra yanked on his connection to the shadows, readying a spell, but then the device on the orc’s tabard registered. He knew it; the first time he’d seen it had been on the ruined dock at Auberdine. It almost wasn’t a surprise when Celebiriel followed the orc out and leapt for Novanne, nor when Droxi emerged a moment later.

Ezra wavered. There didn’t seem to be a fourth member of the Horde team, and they lacked a healer; they’d have healthstones from Droxi, and possibly some potions, but nothing more. The largest problem was the warrior, as he wouldn’t recognise Ezra and neither Celebiriel nor Droxi would be able to acknowledge that they did. There would be no truce.

 _If I don’t attack, if I heal Drumii and Novanne instead, we can outlast them,_ he thought.

 **They’ll have to retreat eventually** , the shadows replied. They sounded a little disappointed, but not enough that Ezra worried about rebellion. Then, a bit more enthusiastic, **We could just mind-control the warrior**.

_Let him have his honourable battle. If he gets too lucky, we can do it then._

The shadows’ response felt a great deal like a shrug. Ezra released his close hold on them and felt the Light surge back. He threw a shield at Drumii and another onto Novanne, and called in Dwarvish, “Be careful, they’re from—my secret’s guild! Just hold them off, they’ll retreat eventually.”

“You must be joking!” Drumii shouted back.

Celebiriel had gotten into something of a game of tag with Novanne’s demon; under the cover of it, Ezra slid close enough to give Novanne the same information. She gave him a look just as skeptical as Drumii’s words, but nodded.

Ezra fell back a bit more and squared his shoulders. All he needed to do now was keep Drumii up.

* * *

Droxi didn’t understand what the priest was saying but she could draw some inferences from his shadows retreating. Now the only problem was getting Rukhbar to back down.

For half a minute nothing changed; then Rukhbar beat one of the dwarf’s blades aside with his shield and landed a solid blow that doubled the knight over—and the priest waved his hand and the dwarf snapped upright, uninjured. That would have been a sign even in a battle Droxi wanted to be waging, and she barked, “This is a losing fight.”

Celebiriel barely dodged a blast from the darkglare’s eye and retreated a few steps. Droxi saw the distortion of a spell ripple through the air like a mirage; when it struck her the elf swayed and bared her teeth in a hiss. Droxi had seen her have less reaction to a wound on its way to literally killing her.

“Rukhbar, let’s _go_ ,” Droxi exclaimed. The orc spared a quick glance for the greater tactical situation and gave a frustrated roar; he hated to retreat, but he knew when his team would be overwhelmed. He began to fall back, a fighting withdrawal. The dwarf pressed him but seemed more interested in driving him away than inflicting damage, and wasn’t that curious. Droxi risked meeting the priest’s eyes, and he winked at her. He threw more healing in the death knight’s direction, and it looked to Droxi like some of the energy hit Celebiriel instead.

Thus she was looking at Celebiriel, and saw her eyes beginning to glow. Droxi’s stomach plummeted; the blast would get all three of the bluecoats and the odds were excellent that it would be fatal for the lightly-armored spellcasters. “Cele, no!” she shrieked. Celebiriel’s attention flickered to her for a moment.

Only a moment, but it was long enough; the death knight cried a word Droxi didn’t recognize and a blast of icy wind that roared like a dragon caught Celebiriel square in the chest, knocking her flat. She hit the ground and skidded.

“Keep them from following us,” Droxi ordered Volnar. The imp whined its disappointment; it wanted to _kill things_. But Droxi hadn’t had a demon slip her control since her first month in training and Volnar’s gouts of flame started to land at the bluecoats’ feet.

Under the cover of her fire and the imp’s, Rukhbar pulled Celebiriel to her feet. The three of them staggered back the way they’d come, and the Alliance team let them go. Droxi crushed a healthstone onto Rukhbar’s skin as they went, and another onto Celebiriel, which at least let the elf stay upright without support.

They made it back to the ship without further incident, having recovered less azerite than was ideal but enough that they wouldn’t be reprimanded. The captain, a Zandalari troll whose name Droxi had never caught, set the crew to preparing for immediate departure when he was told the Alliance had shown up; the ships sent on the azerite runs were lightly armed and their only combat personnel were the ones meant to be disembarking on the islands they visited.

Rukhbar, grumbling to himself, wandered off in search of something alcoholic to soothe his wounded pride while Celebiriel began unbuckling her armor. As soon as he was out of earshot, she said, “I wasn’t going to hit them full power.”

Droxi said ruefully, “I didn’t have time to figure that out, I’m sorry. I was just...I mean, can you picture us having to explain to Crowley that you’d killed his priest again?”

Celebiriel groaned. “I’d rather eat another demon.” She pulled off her left bracer, dropped it, and put her hands on her hips. “Though I don’t see what the problem is,” she said in a tone of exaggerated indignance. “I saved him once, that should count for _something_.”

Droxi snorted, took in Celebiriel’s perfectly straight face, and absolutely lost it, dissolving into half-hysterical giggles; after a moment Cele cracked and started to laugh too, the sound floating out over the water.

* * *

None of the other island teams were back aboard as yet, so the small below-decks common room was deserted. Ezra let himself fall into one of the chairs. His fatigue was nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, but it was far too early to go to bed. He didn’t anticipate any difficulty getting rest, at least; he rather enjoyed sea voyages.

Once the Horde team had retreated, Ezra and his guildmates had investigated the azerite deposit after all and had discovered it to be quite large and of excellent quality. They hadn’t had to go any further to collect enough azerite to satisfy their quota, and had in fact gone over a bit.

A few minutes later, Drumii joined him—or rather, walked into the room, crossed their arms, and said, “You are going to buy me a lot of beer, master of tongues. And Novanne too.”

“I am terribly sorry,” said Ezra. “I didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew.”

The dwarf pulled out a chair of their own and sat in it. Their civilian clothes, like their armour, tended to white, cool grey, and ice blue, but they weren’t nearly so dour as most other death knights Ezra had encountered. He didn’t imagine that somebody who was would fit into the Them very well. “Why didn’t we just talk to them, then?”

“I only know two of them,” said Ezra. “I’ve never met the orc.”

“Ah. Makes sense. Too bad, he’d be fun to spar with.” Drumii shrugged. “But you can’t expect us to hold back when you’re not there.”

“Oh, certainly not. But they are, erm, _his_ friends, and I preferred not to harm them.”

Drumii’s laughter sounded harsh, but sincere despite it. “I don’t know how you can still be so kind after all that happened.” They clapped Ezra companionably on the shoulder. “I envy you, lad. May it always be so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Darkglare:** Essentially an eyestalk-less beholder. They shoot EYE LAZORS.


	41. Chapter 41

Since Crowley wasn’t actively working for the Horde any longer, Ezra could be a little more forthcoming about what he was doing, but there still hadn’t been a lot of detail, just, _It’s about more azerite. I should be gone no more than a week._ “No more than a week” implied the possibility of less than a week, so on the fourth day Crowley decided he might as well sit and fret in the garrison chamber Ezra would materialize in instead of anywhere else.

Late on day five, he wasn’t so much sitting as pacing restlessly back and forth when magic began to prickle over his skin. He stepped far to one side, out of the target area, and felt his heart pick up.

The magic flared; when it faded Crowley discovered not one arrival but two: Mhorduna, leaning heavily on a human woman in spellcaster’s robes whom Crowley didn’t recognise. He hurried closer to help. Mhorduna, though fairly short as kaldorei went, was quite broad, and his helper was shorter than Ezra and slender to match; Mhorduna probably outweighed her by two. Crowley got hold of him just in time.

“Thank you,” said the woman. “Help me get him to his room, he’s just back.” Her voice cast a very small ray of light on Crowley’s memory: she’d been there after Orgrimmar, but in the excitement of Ezra actually waking up they’d missed being introduced. “I’m Alicia Farrier, and you’re Ezra’s little secret.”

“I would rather you use Crowley,” he said dryly. They got into motion without threat of falling over; Mhorduna wasn’t supporting much of his own weight but he at least seemed able to balance. “What happened to him?”

“We’ve been on patrols in Drustvar,” said Alicia. “He got separated from the rest of us, and some damned Hordie—no offense—some rogue stabbed him in the neck and vanished out from under our noses.”

“I thought the priest was the one who needed to watch his back better,” said Crowley. Mhorduna made a noise that might have passed as laughter. “Did anyone get a look?”

Alicia’s reply was cut off by a surprised exclamation, and Crowley stopped short. He was in no real danger of dropping Mhorduna to go to Ezra, but he couldn’t help wanting to. “What in the world?” Ezra asked, as he hurried up behind them.

“He was stabbed by a Horde rogue,” said Alicia. “I didn’t see, but they were described as hunched, with hair, and I’m quoting here, the colour of dead mushrooms. I suspect Forsaken.”

Ezra’s breath hitched.

“Ah, _hell_ ,” said Crowley grimly. “Alright, let’s get this one off his feet.”

Crowley could feel the anxiety radiating from Ezra all the way to Mhorduna’s room. Mhorduna, for his part, didn’t quite get both shoes off before he fell asleep; the three of them got him settled and withdrew to the common room.

“So you know who did this?” Alicia asked.

Crowley grimaced and said, “Probably. If it’s Hastur, he’s holding—what’s that word, priest, for when you keep being angry at someone?”

“Grudge,” said Ezra, almost whispering. His hands worked at each other, tangled in the strap of his bag.

“Hastur has a grudge against…” He wanted to say ‘me’, but Ezra would object. “Against us. Tell the rest of your people to be very careful.”

“Hastur,” Alicia repeated, in evident disgust. “We have a grudge against him too, and it’s high time we do something about that.”

Ezra, meanwhile, had graduated to fussing with his tunic, pretending to smooth it. He created more wrinkles than he erased.

“You’re all able people,” said Crowley. “But Hastur is good at what he does, and he has no fear of cheating. He would much rather use a poisoned knife from ambush than get into a fair fight.”

From just outside, someone called, “Mhorduna, are you here?” Crowley recognised the voice: Dush, the pandaren who’d gone to Orgrimmar. A moment later his voice was followed by the man himself—and leaning on him so heavily he was essentially carrying her, Deorid the mage. Crowley had a sudden strong foreboding.

“Ah, it’s our hidden guest,” said Dush. “Help me with her, would you?”

Crowley hurried to take Deorid’s other arm; Dush could surely handle the weight but she kept wavering off-balance.

Alicia and Ezra, meanwhile, advanced on them with haste. Ezra had even stopped fretting for a moment, presented with a patient. “What happened?” Alicia demanded.

“She was—” Dush began.

“—stabbed,” said Crowley. “By a Forsaken who attacked from ambush and vanished.”

There was a brief, surprised pause, and then Dush said, “That’s what Sergeant Shadwell said. She was with his group when it happened and they brought her back to Arom’s Stand. How did you guess?”

“‘M not guessing. It’s what happened to Mhorduna too.”

“Mhorduna?”

“He’s in his room,” said Alicia. “Let’s get Deorid to the free room. Someone will need to stay with her, this is only her second time.” That explained why the mage was so disoriented, anyway.

“I can stay. That’s why they sent me with her,” said Dush.

Alicia crossed her arms, the expression on her face so angry Crowley could see it. “Alright. You are in charge of Mhorduna,” she went on after a moment, pointing to Crowley. He nodded. Technically speaking she had no authority over him, but he didn’t feel inclined to argue. Mhorduna had done it for him. “Ezra, you’ll need to keep an eye on both of them. Me, I have a guild meeting to organise, this needs to be dealt with. Five days should be enough time to get almost everyone here. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in Boralus.”

Dush and Crowley got Deorid back into motion as Alicia pulled a hearthstone from her belt pouch and began to roll it.

As they neared the door to the free room, Crowley cast a glance at Ezra—who was standing stock still except for his nervous hands. “Can you get her the rest of the way?”

Sounding startled, Dush said, “Of course.” Crowley let go of Deorid’s arm—carefully—and went to Ezra. “Calm down, priest,” he said, and took Ezra’s hands. He slipped back into Thalassian without really noticing. “They’ll both be fine.”

Ezra’s grip tightened to the point of pain. “It’s my fault,” he said. “It’s my fault they’re hurt.”

“It’s Hastur’s fault,” said Crowley firmly. “None of this would have happened if he and Ligur didn’t like hurting people.”

“He’s doing it because of me. He’s hurting them because he can’t get to me, or to you.” Ezra stopped and drew a deep breath, and Crowley braced himself for whatever idiocy he was about to propose. “I have to go and, and find him. Face him.”

On a scale of one to _I gave away my immortal soul_ , that...wasn’t as bad as it might have been, but Crowley snapped, “No!” anyway. “You should do no such thing, priest. He's doing it because he's angry at us and I don't like that any more than you do, but drawing us out—especially alone—that's exactly what he wants.” He took a quick breath of his own and let it out through clenched teeth. “Don’t think I won’t tie you up if I have to.”

From the door to Deorid’s temporary room, Dush coughed politely and said, “In Common, if you would.”

“I'm threatening to tie him down to stop him from doing something stupid,” said Crowley, his voice much closer to a growl than he had intended.

“Double check your knots, then,” said Dush, sounding amused. “He has a knack for them.”

“Good with knots doesn’t help if you can’t reach them.” Ezra made a small, miserable noise and Crowley grimaced. That hadn’t perhaps been the most tactful thing to bring up, in this context. He made an effort to gentle his voice. “Just promise me you’re not going to try to sneak off alone.”

There was a long and frankly terrifying pause before Ezra nodded.

“Out loud,” Crowley demanded.

“As you wish,” said Ezra. The words didn’t carry the same warmth as usual. Ezra squared his shoulders and stood up straighter. “I should get them some water.”

“I mean it, Ezra. We’ll deal with Hastur, but you can’t go after him alone.”

“Well neither can you,” said Ezra, with a touch more vigour. “I’ll fetch water, and Dush, would you like wine?”

“Yes, please.”

“My dear, stay with Mhorduna while I go to the kitchens, I don’t like to have him be alone,” said Ezra.

Crowley eyed him skeptically. “If you’re not back in five minutes I’m coming after you.”

Fortunately for Crowley’s nerves Ezra made it back under the deadline, if not by much, and dragged in a chair from the hall since Crowley had taken Mhorduna’s desk chair. He sat. For a few seconds neither of them said anything.

“I saw Droxi and Celebiriel while we were on our mission,” said Ezra.

Crowley, who was capable of recognising a peace offering when it was waved in his face, said, “If you had to damage them, next time lead with that.”

“Well, we did have to fight. There was someone else from your guild, a warrior. But last I saw them they were alright.”

“Describe the warrior?”

“An orc, short tusks, with shield and hand-axe.”

“That's probably Rukhbar. Good man in a fight. He doesn't like Illidari much but he's not loud about it, and he'd never leave a guildmate behind.” Crowley leant back in his chair and jerked his chin in the direction of the bed. “I don’t like to wake Mhorduna but he should probably eat something.”

“He needs a bit more rest first,” said Ezra, and since he was the expert Crowley shrugged.

* * *

Crowley spent the next few hours trying to be a distraction, with moderate success; Ezra only occasionally broke off into fretting. When Mhorduna woke, Ezra all but leapt to help him sit up and drink something, and then bustled off with a promise of sending for food.

Once he was out of the room, Mhorduna said, “It was Hastur.”

“That’s what we thought from the description.” It wasn’t exactly a surprise that Mhorduna didn’t remember the discussion. “He can’t go after my guild, if he’s caught it’ll be treason. So he’s targeting Ezra’s.”

“He must have been waiting in ambush.”

“The blasted Archangels again—they’d be able to tell him roughly where you were assigned.” Crowley felt his lips tighten. “Ezra wants to go face him, so we’ve got about four more minutes before I have to go find him and make sure he isn’t doing anything idiotic.”

Mhorduna sighed and drank from his cup. “We have to work out what to do about this.”

“Yeah.” Crowley grimaced. Mhorduna wasn’t going to like this. “Hastur didn’t only get you. The mage, Deorid? She’s recovering too.”

Mhorduna cursed—in Darnassian, but the tone of voice was easy enough to identify—and started trying to get out of bed. “Guild meeting. I need to call a guild meeting.”

Crowley got hurriedly out of his chair. “Lie down, idiot,” he said, with a hand firmly on Mhorduna’s shoulder. “Your other priest, Alicia, she’s working on it. If there’s anyone you want to be sure of I can let her know.”

Mhorduna subsided, if reluctantly; under normal circumstances the two of them would be fairly evenly matched, but as it was he didn’t stand a chance. “I’ll need to be sure of _you_ ,” he said. “You know him better than we do.”

That...didn’t sound much like Crowley’s idea of an entertaining afternoon, but he had to admit it was sensible. “I think she said five days to get as many people as possible.”

“That gives us time to make sure the drinks reserve is full,” said Mhorduna. “Should probably also open up some space in the barracks.”

“I’ll let someone know.” Crowley straightened up. “But right now I’ve got to go find Ezra.”

* * *

Ezra got through asking for food to be sent to Mhorduna’s room before he couldn’t hold on to the anxiety any longer. He wanted to check on Deorid, but it didn’t seem wise to inflict his agitation upon her; going back into Mhorduna’s room would only force him to confront evidence of his own failings; his room seemed too empty to be in alone. He ended up pacing through the main hall, never getting closer than a yard or so to any of his possible destinations.

**We could just _handle_ this,** said the shadows, sounding remarkably matter-of-fact. **You know we could. It would be easy.**

“I promised Crowley,” Ezra muttered. He couldn’t stop his hands from fretting at each other.

**Let us know when you come to your senses,** they replied, and subsided.

“Come here for a second, would you?” Ezra startled and turned to discover that Crowley had emerged from Mhorduna’s room.

“Is something wrong?” Ezra asked as he hurried over. Things _could_ go wrong, even for someone as seasoned as Mhorduna.

Crowley’s head tilted, in the way it did when a thought he hadn’t expected occurred to him. “No, he’s fine, it’s…” His voice wavered. “It’s me. I’m—a bit off.”

Well, that simply wouldn’t do. Ezra took Crowley’s hands. “What do you need, my sun?” It had hardly escaped his notice that Crowley didn’t like to admit to weakness; the least Ezra could do was to help.

Crowley’s shoulders dropped and he said, “Just to know where you are.”

Ezra clutched their clasped hands to his chest. “I’m right here.”

Crowley nodded, but after a moment he pulled Ezra a little closer and wrapped one arm around his shoulders. “There. This’ll do.”

Ezra found himself hard-pressed to disagree. The position had charm enough on its own merit, and he found it steadying to be steady for Crowley. For a minute they just stood there, silently; Ezra could feel his heartbeat slowing.

“We should check on Mhorduna.”

“I suppose we might as well sit in there as anywhere else.”

“I’ll need to get some rest myself soon.” Ezra did not particularly want to; one or the other of them should stay with Mhorduna, which meant sleeping alone. But there was nothing for it.

“He wants me at your guild meeting,” said Crowley, sounding a bit gloomy about it.

Ezra chuckled. “You’ll be fine. No one in the Them dislikes you.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise and said, “Are you feeling better?”

Ezra sighed and burrowed a little further into Crowley’s arms. “No. But I’ll make do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sergeant Shadwell:** Look, Drustvar has a group of people whose actual job it is to find and deal with witches, OK?


	42. Chapter 42

The days passed in relative peace—no one else showed up at the garrison having gotten a poisoned dagger to the neck, at least. Crowley spent a fair bit of time helping people in the usually-empty parts of the barracks, rendering them fit for habitation, and rather more hiding from attempts to _get_ him to help. He had no distaste for work, but in this particular case there were draenei for that.

During the day Ezra bustled about, hovering over Deorid and Mhorduna like a ‘strider hen with only two chicks. They both took it a lot better than Crowley would have expected, but his own reaction to being _looked after_ was, possibly, not the best model to use. It kept Ezra busy, which mostly kept him from brooding. But after the first night, enlivened by two separate panting, sweating nightmares, he slept even less than usual. Crowley tried not to worry about it; a few days wouldn’t do any permanent harm. Ezra insisted that he wasn’t sleepy, which was obvious nonsense but Crowley didn’t want to start an argument.

By the time the day of the meeting arrived, Mhorduna was back on his feet. He stood at the head of the long table in the great hall while more and more of the Them filtered in—and Crowley got more and more uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he thought any of Ezra’s guildmates would be actively hostile, but...they were all Alliance, and he was still technically their sworn enemy.

Mostly people ignored him, though the four other Illidari gave him nods at least, and eventually people stopped arriving. The table didn’t have room for everyone to sit down; Alicia and Mhorduna had called in every member of the Them who wasn’t absolutely unreachable. Ezra and Crowley did get chairs, with Crowley on Mhorduna's right.

Once everyone had settled down, silence fell, as much silence as you could get in a room that had so many people in it anyway. Into it, Mhorduna said, “You’ve all been told about what’s happening. We need to discuss our response.”

A draenei woman whose name Crowley didn’t know stood up from her seat at the center of one long side of the table. “You know that I trust your judgement,” she said. Her accent wasn’t as thick as most of the draenei who staffed the garrison. “But two attacks _could_ be coincidence, merely an enemy who happened to encounter two of our people on the same day. We do not need any response if that is so.”

Crowley sighed. He’d rather been hoping to put this part off. “Brother,” said Mhorduna, “would you address Avadarra’s concerns?”

* * *

Crowley pushed his chair back and stood. Ezra knotted his fingers together in his lap to keep himself from fidgeting; he didn’t particularly want to hear this, any more than Crowley wanted to say it.

“Mhorduna, Ezra and I have information which the rest of you do not yet,” said Crowley. He sounded commendably at ease; his Thalassian accent showed more than usual and his grammar had gone formal, but Ezra doubted that anyone other than himself would recognise those things as the indicators they were. “You do know that the rogue who attacked Mhorduna and Deorid is almost certainly Edward Hastur of the Forsaken. What you do not know is why that matters.” People murmured agreement and curiosity—and anger. Most of the Them knew what Hastur and Ligur had done, in broad strokes at least. “Hastur maintains a personal grudge against both Ezra and myself. He holds us responsible for the death—permanent death—of his accomplice Ligur. It is my belief that he is attacking you in order to damage Ezra and also me, and that he hopes to draw us out, either of us or both, so that he can…” Crowley stopped and took a quick deep breath. “Hastur enjoys hurting people only to hurt them. So far he has killed quickly from ambush, but sooner or later he will begin taking you alive in order to cause pain. You must have a response before he does that. My command, the Horde’s command, cannot move against him even if they would, because there is no proof. But you are the Alliance, and you need not proof.” Ezra frowned. It had been some time since Crowley had made such an elementary mistake.

“He wants you?” asked Avadarra. Crowley nodded. She addressed the room more generally. “Why don’t we turn him over, then? Let the Horde handle the Horde.”

Ezra started out of his seat, but Sieg, sitting beside him, grabbed his arm. “It won’t help,” she muttered. Ezra bit his tongue, but she was right; he subsided.

The look on Crowley’s face was nothing but resigned, and he was opening his mouth when a voice cut across the affirmative murmurs. “Really?” said Makavi, and uncoiled from her chair to plant her fists on the table. “We’re better than that. You all know I have no love for the Horde, or for sin’dorei, Elune witness it’s true, but Crowley is one of _us_. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s put his ass on the line for Ezra.” She waved one hand in Crowley’s direction. “He discorporated _himself_ to bring Ezra back to us! If that’s the will of the guild, so be it, but I’ll be leaving.” Scorn dripped from her voice. “I won’t associate with traitors.” Crowley cast his gaze up to the ceiling and Ezra tried to beam him a quelling impulse; now was not the time for his sense of humour to come out.

“You can’t mean that!” Avadarra exclaimed.

Maka fixed her with her black gaze, flashing with anger, and Avadarra actually flinched. “I can and I do. You all have to make your decisions. I’ve made mine.” She dropped back into her seat with an air of finality.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Ezra’s fingers clutched painfully at the arms of his chair.

Crowley cleared his throat. “If I thought that giving myself over would stop Hastur, I already would have done that.” Ezra smothered his own noise of protest, because the dear fool _would_ say that, and probably meant it. “However, it will not. He has, erm, he _is_ —I don’t know the word. He pays attention to Ezra, in a bad way, and he isn’t going to stop.”

“He is obsessed,” said Mhorduna.

Ezra’s stomach turned over, and he couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known. Crowley went on, “He and Ligur were obsessed about Ezra before we met. Giving me over would solve only half of your problem.”

“Then how do we solve the whole thing?” asked Siegrunë. “That’s the question.”

“No, it’s not,” said Alicia, to Ezra’s mild surprise. She generally preferred to keep her input into guild business private, rarely speaking in large meetings like this. “The right question is: how did Hastur know where to find Mhorduna and Deorid? With apologies to Avadarra, I think the timing’s too tight to be covered by coincidence.”

Crowley sat back down, his breath hissing out through his teeth, and Ezra gave him a questioning look. Rather than answer, Crowley reached across the gap between their chairs and took his hand.

“Alright,” said Mhorduna. “For now, we’re going to be very cautious. No one goes anywhere alone, including me, including in Boralus. Including in Stormwind, for that matter. Pairs at least. Don’t get drunk in public. I’m going to meet with the officers to look over our assignments and see if we can’t shuffle some of what we already have for things that are just being announced—the more unpredictable our schedule, the harder time he’ll have tracking any of us.” Crowley’s grip on Ezra’s hand relaxed a bit. “In the meantime, we should keep this to ourselves. We’re already known for sticking together in public, so that much shouldn’t raise questions. But I’d rather not have to explain why a Forsaken has targeted us.” Mhorduna sat back in his chair, and in a much lighter tone went on, “And now, we’re all here and so is the beer, so let’s take advantage of that.”

Unsurprisingly, the suggestion drew approving comments, and people began getting out of their seats. Ezra turned his head to find Crowley watching him, eyebrows raised. “I was expecting that meeting to take longer,” he said quietly.

“Mhorduna likes to present the problems and then give people time to think about them. The officers make the final decision but others can have useful ideas,” Ezra replied.

Crowley shrugged. “And he wanted everyone to see that he was back to full strength and in control of the situation, probably.”

He tried to pull his hand back, but Ezra tightened his hold. “I don’t think I want to stay,” he said. “I’m...hearing it talked about, it wasn’t—well I don’t want to.”

“You sure?”

Ezra nodded. He could feel the lack of sleep pulling at him like a druid’s clinging vines, and he couldn’t imagine that it didn’t show. “I want to lie down. We’ll leave the door open so they don’t joke too much.”

“Anything you like,” said Crowley. “Let them joke, if they want to.”

“I like to relax, then.” A strand of hair had escaped Crowley’s plait and Ezra couldn’t resist smoothing it back. “But we _are_ leaving the door open. They need to see you’re not a threat.”

“If they haven’t worked that out by now, they’re not likely to,” said Crowley.

Suddenly it occurred to Ezra that the entire room had gone very quiet. He leant a little to the side to get a better look at the rest of the room.

Every eye in the place was fixed on the two of them, down to Raka’s. “My sun,” he said, torn between amusement and resignation, “I think you don’t want to turn around.”

* * *

There were only two possible responses to that; Crowley picked the one more likely to save his sanity and kept his eyes firmly fixed on Ezra. “You said something about lying down.”

Ezra laughed. “Yes. And possibly reading, how does that sound?”

“As long as it doesn’t require me to turn around.”

People started talking again and Crowley wondered how he’d missed the absence of noise. As they arrived at the door to the room, Avadarra’s voice rose. “I was wrong. We can’t turn him over to the Horde, they’re too entertaining.”

“Your friends are going to discorporate me,” said Crowley, only half joking.

Ezra, in defiance of his earlier plan, closed the door behind them and bolted it. “Light forbid it,” he said. “Do come here.”

“You know perfectly well you couldn’t fight me off with a stick,” Crowley told him. “Get a book, sit down, and I’ll be there in a moment.” He took off his boots and overtunic as Ezra did as instructed.

Once they were pleasantly arranged Crowley put his arm over his eyes. “What do you think the odds are they're going to try to catch us kissing?”

“Right now, low,” said Ezra. “As people get drunk...if they undo the bolt from the outside we’ll have that much warning at least. Do you know, Maka and Sieg spent a whole afternoon shadowmelded to keep an eye on us?”

“They did?” Crowley’s options were to laugh or to storm off in search of a pair of kaldorei, and he was too comfortable to get up. “When?” He moved his arm and discovered heat radiating from Ezra’s face.

“That day we sat by the pond.”

“I hope they were bored senseless,” said Crowley, covering his eyes again. “Lovely day for you, lovely day for me, nothing remotely entertaining for anyone else.”

“They said we were boring all afternoon, but they did, erm, catch us. If you recall.”

Crowley made an agreeable noise.

Ezra was silent for a moment. “Speaking of kisses,” he said, and trailed off meaningfully.

“You couldn’t have asked before I got comfortable?” Crowley grumbled for form’s sake. He propped himself up on one elbow to oblige.

“No,” said Ezra, giggling—and then the sound was echoed and they both froze.

Crowley turned his head slowly. No fewer than five figures emerged from the shadows on the wall: Makavi and Siegrunë, Gnoklu the gnome, and two people he had yet to be introduced to, another kaldora and a human. They were all openly laughing now. He sat up. “Out. The lot of you.” He suspected he wasn’t as menacing as he would have liked, but at least they went.

Makavi, the last one out, said cheerfully, “You need to watch something besides Ezra.”

Crowley let himself fall back to the mattress and put his hands over his face. “I used to be good at this, you know.”

“Don’t worry, my dear, they’re harmless,” said Ezra. That wasn’t really the point—Ezra’s guildmates were harmless, other things Crowley might miss were decidedly _not_ —but he didn’t feel like starting that conversation. “Now since you’re not settled, if you’d be so kind as to set the bolt again?”

Crowley groaned into his palms, just to make his point clear, and then climbed off the bed and went to bolt the door. “It would serve them right if they did have to watch,” he said.

“Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly allow _that_ ,” said Ezra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's in any way unclear, Ezra's last line should be read in precisely the same tone as "I think perhaps you've got the wrong shop."


	43. Chapter 43

Late in the evening, someone knocked. “Ezra, meeting time. You too, little—Crowley,” said Alicia’s voice, made faint by the heavy door.

“They’re going to call me ‘little secret’ for the rest of time, aren’t they?” said Crowley as Ezra marked his place in his book. It was a purely rhetorical question; he could recognise his doom when it was waved in his face.

“It just means they like you,” Ezra replied.

In the great hall, some of the Them were still drinking; Alicia led the way to a smaller room with just enough seats for all the occupants, arranged around a circular table. Crowley hadn’t previously paid much attention to the leadership of the Them; it appeared to be Mhorduna, Makavi, Alicia, Gnoklu, Avadarra and Siegrunë. Rather heavy on kaldorei, but that wasn’t entirely surprising.

Crowley and Ezra took the empty chairs, and for a moment the seven of them stared at each other. “Alright,” said Mhorduna. “Our last officer isn’t available, but we can fill him in later. Ezra, I understand that it’s going to be difficult for you, but we do need to have this discussion.”

Ezra huddled in his chair, already fussing with the border of his tunic, and said, “Yes, boss.” Crowley felt his jaw tighten. At least this wasn’t going to happen in front of the entirety of the guild.

“We all know why we’re here, and that we need to keep this one serious. Crowley has a theory. If he’s right there are implications. I’ve been looking into it, but with Hastur escalating, we need to up our game. So, brother, if you would?”

Startled, Crowley said, “This is Alliance business.” He had not expected to have to give a presentation.

“You’re the one who first saw it.”

Crowley huffed and sat up a bit straighter. “Hastur is working with the Archangels.” He tried to make his voice flat, containing nothing but the meanings of the words themselves. Ezra made a soft, miserable noise; Crowley forced himself to ignore it. “I think Ligur started it, and Hastur is taking advantage of the connection.”

A moment’s stunned silence passed. “Do you have _proof_ of this?” Alicia demanded.

“Proof, no, only many things that show the shape of what proof would be,” said Crowley. “They’ve been just happening to show up at fights you would be in. When they took Ezra, it was Michael and Uriel who found the body. When Hastur took him from Boralus, Michael said there was no Horde presence. Ligur knew too much about me and Ezra.”

“It can’t _be_ ,” Ezra burst out. “It’s insane, Crowley, you know it is!”

Another moment of silence passed, this one filled with the officers of the Them having unspoken conversations; Crowley couldn’t understand them, but it was obvious they were happening. He’d rarely seen so many unrelated individuals able to communicate so well.

“Ezra,” said Avadarra carefully, “when you were with them, how many times did you heal for the officers on the front lines?”

“Never,” said Ezra, barely audible.

“But before and after, they’d ask for you. Even when we took back Darkshore, when you were supposed to be assigned to the hospital tents,” said Makavi. “And Hastur and Ligur were there, I had to deal with enough people who were taken down by _that pair of rogues_.”

Ezra leant forward, both hands flat on the table, and said, “It’s _not possible_. The Archangels, they’re _prats_ —”

“Language, priest,” Crowley murmured, unable to stop himself; Ezra, quite rightly, ignored him.

“—but they wouldn’t _sell people!_ ”

“That night in Boralus, the night of the Horde raid,” said Mhorduna. “Hastur and Ligur ambushed you. How did that happen?”

“How do you think it happened?” Ezra spat. “I was doing rounds, I wasn’t paying enough attention, I came around a corner and Ligur was just, just _there_ , and then Hastur hit me from behind.” Shadows were starting to form around his fingers; Crowley saw Mhorduna noting it as well.

"How'd they know where you were going to be, that you'd be alone?" Crowley asked. "The first few times we met were enough coincidences for a lifetime, adding in those two just stumbling across you as well is bordering on silly."

Ezra turned on him and said, “Preying on innocents isn’t enough?”

Crowley laid his hand on Ezra’s arm. “You said yourself no one in that area has anything worth stealing, and priest—there was no sign of them before I found them beating you. No pillaging, no damage, no one else was hurt. I know you want it to be not true, but wanting doesn’t change what happened.”

Ezra slumped and the shadows thinned out and blew away, but Crowley could feel him shaking. “I’m not a pawn,” he said, his voice wavering. “It was me, I was careless, you’re always telling me to look behind me.” Crowley winced; fortunately Ezra wasn’t paying enough attention to notice.

“It wasn’t you, unless you wish to say that Mhorduna and Deorid were careless as well,” said Avadarra, her voice firm. “The rogues did wrong, and Hastur needs to pay for it. Him and anyone who wants to use _any_ of us as pawns. He’s trying to do the same now, hurting people you care about to draw you out. We’re not going to let him.”

Makavi got up out of her seat, circled the table to Ezra’s side, and coaxed him to standing. Crowley expected her to embrace him, and she did—for all of a second, before giving him a gentle shove in Crowley’s direction. He stood up hastily to receive the unexpected armful and Makavi huffed at him. “Are all sin’dorei idiots, or is it just you?”

“Erm,” said Crowley, as she returned to her chair. The seats were at least broad enough that he could sit Ezra next to him, which, being less concerned with Ezra’s dignity than his composure, he did. Ezra’s arms went around his waist immediately.

Avadarra, meanwhile, sat back and crossed her arms. In the short-sleeved tunic she wore, the display was impressive. “You were right, little secret. If this is true, getting rid of you won’t get rid of the problem.”

Crowley nodded without paying much attention.

“The question is, which direction do we attack this from?” said Gnoklu. “Both would be ideal, if we can manage it.”

“A few of my friends are doing what they can, but none of them are well-placed for it,” said Crowley. “None of the Fallen have ever been fond of my guild and it’s hardly _better_ now.”

“Can we find any of the previous victims?” Alicia paused, made a show of considering, and went on, “I’m assuming there were previous victims.”

Crowley felt his own face twist into disgust and said, “There were.” That was probably too short. “The two of them loved to tell people who didn’t want to listen to the things they had done.”

“But how many people would come back, after— _that_?” said Makavi. Ezra folded in on himself a little tighter.

“Few. I don’t think we can count on finding any of the others,” said Mhorduna.

Gnoklu said, “That means going at it from our side. I can, um, keep the Archangels under observation.”

“Bad idea,” said Siegrunë. “You’re good, but everyone makes mistakes. If they find out we’re watching, at _best_ we’ll lose the ability to watch. We need someone on the inside.”

Crowley felt Ezra take a breath. “I could—” he began.

“No, you absolutely can’t, you numpty,” said Crowley before he could stop himself. On the one hand, Ezra actually contributing to the conversation was a good sign; on the other, his cleverness was clearly not in full operation just now. “The Archangels aren’t idiots, and you told Gabriel to sod off to his face. They might take you back if you tried, but they’d know that you had a hidden reason.”

“Ez can’t,” said Makavi thoughtfully. “I can.”

“Maka,” Ezra gasped.

“We can stage a fight,” she said. “I’m tired of babysitting you, filling in for you. We don’t get placed in the front lines enough, where I can get vengeance for Teldrassil.” She shrugged apologetically and said, “Even worse, now we’re sheltering a blood elf.”

Mhorduna drew a sharp breath. “The idea is sound, but it would be better to keep Crowley out of it. I think your first two reasons should be plenty.” He paused, and with one hand began to fidget with the leather bracelets on his other wrist. Crowley had never seen that sort of nervous tic in him before. “I have an idea, but none of us are going to like it.”

* * *

Mhorduna's plan was probably better—absolutely better, if Crowley were honest about it—but he was also correct that Crowley didn’t like it. If the way he slumped into Crowley’s side was any indication, neither did Ezra. But they all agreed it was likely to _work_ , which was the important part. If there was one thing Crowley had learnt since joining the Illidari, it was that he didn’t have to like a plan for it to be what had to be done.

After that there wasn’t much to decide, because almost all the details depended on the reception Makavi got. The meeting didn’t exactly end, but Crowley and Ezra left it because Crowley didn’t like the way Ezra kept jumping back and forth between useful comments and withdrawn anxiety.

* * *

When they got back to the room Crowley paused to bolt it, leaving Ezra standing in the middle of the floor feeling lost. He wrapped his arms around his own middle. It helped, a little, but when Crowley turned back to him that was much better. “Well, that could have been worse, but it would have taken real effort,” Crowley said into Ezra’s hair. “Sorry we had to talk about it.”

“No, Mhorduna was right,” said Ezra, hearing his own voice spun out into a thread. “I’m exhausted.”

“Of course you're exhausted, you don’t get enough sleep _normally_.”

Ezra attempted a laugh, which didn’t go terribly well, and pulled in the direction of the bed. “When I’m asleep I’m missing time with you,” he said fretfully. He sat, drawing Crowley down with him, and kept going until he was lying against the pillows with Crowley draped over him. He swept one hand up the line of Crowley’s spine, naming the vertebrae to himself as he went; he found the tiny mental exertion calming. “I’ll just sleep like this.”

“Anything you like, priest,” said Crowley, and Ezra was struck by a pang of remorse.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to remove his hands entirely, but he shifted them so that he wasn’t holding Crowley in any longer. “I like you there, but my dear, I wouldn’t want to keep you from relaxing as well.”

“Don't know where you get the idea that I'm not relaxed,” said Crowley. “You’re the one planning to sleep while I’m squashing you.” In truth he was taking most of his own weight, though Ezra wouldn’t have cared if he hadn’t.

“Don’t be absurd. You’re quite light.”

Crowley made a mock-disgruntled noise and said, “I’m a hand taller than you. More, even. How light can I be?”

Ezra tugged on the back of his neck and Crowley leant down into the kiss. “As light as a kiss,” said Ezra when they parted. “As warm as the sun.”

Crowley’s reply came after the tiniest pause. “You’re a hopeless romantic, you should know that.”

“And _you_ pretend not to be,” said Ezra loftily.

Crowley huffed amusement. “We’re a terrible novel, you know? _They found their one and it was someone they couldn’t have_ is such a cliché.”

Ezra burrowed his shoulders more comfortably into the mattress and said, “But I love novels. What happens next in this one?”

“That depends on whether it’s a comedy,” said Crowley.

Ezra laughed, much more successfully this time. “My favourites aren’t comedies.”

In the tone he used when he thought he was going to regret hearing the answer, Crowley asked, “What _are_ your favourites, then?”

He sounded far too composed and Ezra decided he couldn’t have that. He pulled the hem of Crowley’s shirt free of his breeches and slid a hand beneath it. Crowley, as usual, felt a bit warmer than Ezra himself. “It depends on language, to be perfectly honest,” he said as he traced the vertebrae again, a little easier this time without the layers of shirt and tunic. “In Thalassian...oh, for example, the one I had with me in Arathi. Thalassian is a wonderful language for that sort of story.”

To Ezra’s satisfaction, Crowley had to visibly compose himself before replying. “Priest, do you know how many books you've gone through since Arathi? All I remember is that you _had_ a book.”

“I’m deeply offended, my dear boy,” said Ezra. “I read it to you in Dalaran.” He raked his fingers back down the length of Crowley’s back, making sure not to press hard enough to do real damage, and Crowley made a noise that was all inhale.

“Didn’t know it was the same book,” he said after a moment, sounding more than a little strangled.

Ezra nuzzled his way back to Crowley’s ear, the better to whisper “I’m sure I told you” into it before biting the lobe. He did not, realistically, have enough energy to go very far, but he wanted what he could get.

“A few things have happened since then,” said Crowley.

Ezra sighed and let his head fall back. “Yes, and there are only going to be more. But I’d rather not dwell on it just now.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

A large portion of Ezra’s guildmates left, on to their next assignments, the morning after the party. Those who had a bit more time stayed, and drank again the second evening; for that one Ezra attended, and Crowley sat in a corner and resolutely did not drink an entire bottle of wine alone.

Crowley managed to keep himself in check until the evening of the third day, the evening before Ezra was due to leave. He did so in large part by deliberately not thinking about anything, but he did it.

They were eating when suddenly he couldn’t stand it anymore and set his cup down, a little too hard. Ezra looked up from his plate in mild surprise. Crowley announced, “I hate this plan.”

“There aren’t so many options, my sun,” said Ezra. “We wouldn’t be safe here forever, and we can hardly ask the entire guild to risk their lives for our sake. We must have proof.”

“I hate how we’re getting it.” Crowley threw himself back in his chair.

“ _Do_ you have a better idea? One, single better idea?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” asked Crowley, aware he sounded peevish. “I’m not trying to stop you going, I just hate this plan.”

Ezra dabbed his mouth with his napkin and hating the plan stopped for a few moments so Crowley could watch him do it. Once the deed was done, however, Ezra set the napkin down and extended his hand. Crowley took it. “There are so many things I hate now that this plan is barely a drop in the sea,” said Ezra. “But we should count our blessings. While we’re here, either of us, we’re safe. You have armour and weapons again. You have Rhion and the carpet, if you should need to travel quickly. The whole guild knows to be cautious and we’re going to stop Hastur.” His grip tightened. “We have a night, and a year ago that would have been a fantasy. Before that, we didn’t even know each other. Isn’t that enough?”

“It means I have something to lose,” Crowley said—mumbled, really.

“You can’t lose me. I can’t lose you. Even if we’re separated, we’ll find each other again.”

Crowley had no answer that would make the conversation go in a direction he was willing to take it, so instead he said, “Hastur’s a spiteful bastard, priest. You need to be very careful.”

“I will. You heard Mhorduna at the meeting. We’re going about in groups, sharing rooms, I’ll even remember to bolt the doors.” Ezra patted his hand.

“You’d better,” said Crowley. He slumped a bit and sighed. “Last time he took you from the middle of an enemy city with nothing between him and the sun, alright? I hate this plan.”

“Well I hope you don’t think I’m any happier,” said Ezra. “I’m still not sure we should do, well, you know.”

The problem was that Ezra disliked the wrong _part_ of the plan. “Priest, we have talked this to death. Obviously you should do it.” Crowley picked up his knife for something to do with his hands. “You'll be safer that way, it would be foolish not to.” If Ezra had to be back in Boralus, Crowley might be able to sleep knowing he was within arms’ reach of Mhorduna at all times.

“I know, I know.” Ezra sounded alarmingly distressed. “But I don’t think I can do it. And it’s not as if it will do anything to protect you.”

Crowley studied him for a moment, put the knife down, and said, “I will be fine, I’m not even on the same planet as Hastur.” He wasn’t entirely sure he was, strictly speaking, in the same _universe_. “You need all the cover you can get.”

“Oh, how can I? I don’t _want_ to!”

Sometimes Crowley forgot that Ezra had, until quite recently, had a life in which wanting to do things mattered. Or at least, mattered more than what had to be done in pursuit of objectives. Crowley vaguely remembered what that was like, but it had been a long decade. “We can’t have what we want right now, and there’s no use crying about it,” he said. It was perhaps a little more blunt than he might have preferred. “Right now our job is to survive Hastur.”

Ezra put his hands down flat on the table and took a deep breath. “Yes, of course you’re right.” He sounded put out.

“You’re not required to like it,” said Crowley wryly. “Seem to recall I started with _I hate this plan_. But do this, yeah? I know it's not real, you know it's not real, I assume Mhorduna knows it's not real. It only matters what anyone else thinks because we want them to think it _is_ real.”

“Of course Mhorduna knows it’s not real.” Ezra sighed and, in a voice laden with woe, said, “It’s me I’m not sure of. I’m not any _good_ at lying and...and I don’t want you to feel like I’m _cheating_.”

“Cheating?” Crowley had to admit he was a little offended. “This isn’t some affair, priest.”

“That doesn’t _stop_ some people, Crowley! Not everyone has your moral compass, and of course I would _never_ but how are you to know that?”

Crowley was just about to snap when it occurred to him that he was talking to a human. As was so often the case, apparently they did things differently. “That’s not what I mean,” he said, with an effort to sound calm. “You’re my One. I don’t need a moral compass—” Odd phrase, that, though it was clear enough what it meant. “—to resist temptation. I’m just not tempted, and I’m not going to be. It would never have occurred to me that you could cheat, that you’d ever want to. Cheating is for people who aren’t with their One. Haven’t you read that in any of your books?”

“I, my goodness, that’s a literary device!” Ezra paused, his head tilting. “Isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” said Crowley simply.


	44. Chapter 44

Ezra blinked at him in bafflement. Crowley went on, “Not everybody—well, not everybody finds their One, or they just don’t have one, nobody knows.” Ezra took refuge in linguistic fascination for a moment: the word was the usual numeral _one_ , but with an old-fashioned augmentative suffix, no longer productive but fossilized in place in some words. “But if you do, that’s the end of it. If we didn't have, erm, special circumstances, if I outlived you...it's not that I'd never be happy again. It's not unknown for people to have children with somebody else, even get married. But it's not _love_ , ever again.” Speaking of linguistics, Ezra was faintly grateful that they weren’t attempting to have this conversation in Common; Thalassian had a round dozen words describing varieties of emotion that in Common all fell under the purview of ‘love’.

“Oh my,” he said. “I suppose that explains, oh, any number of things. Illidan Stormrage! People always said that he joined the Legion because Tyrande Whisperwind rejected him in favour of his brother.” It had, of course, been immensely more complicated than that, especially when you accounted for the fact that Illidan had been working _against_ the Legion from the inside—but hardly anyone had known that until quite recently. “She was his, his One—”

“But he wasn’t hers,” Crowley replied, nodding. “It happens, and it’s not pretty. Another thing nobody understands.”

“How perfectly dreadful,” said Ezra. “To feel so much for someone, and know that they didn’t return it, and that your feelings would never go away...it must be devastating.” And then the phrase ‘special circumstances’, which had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness like an itch he couldn’t scratch, sat up and demanded attention. Ezra dropped his fork, barely noticing the clatter, and put his hands over his mouth in horror.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley demanded.

“No wonder you were so—” said Ezra through his fingers, and couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t bear to think of what Crowley had been like in that horrid little cell, much less name it. “And I stabbed myself right in _front_ of you, oh Crowley, I’ve hurt you so very badly.”

To his astonishment, Crowley laughed. “I won’t say I enjoyed it, but it’s all worked out now.”

“But it isn’t!” Ezra exclaimed. “It’s why you gave away your life to bring me back.”

“Priest, stop it,” said Crowley, his voice hovering on the edge of waspish.

“I won’t!”

More tightly, Crowley said, “It's done, we can't change it, and I'm not at all interested in wasting an evening crying about it.”

“I hurt you,” said Ezra miserably.

“And if you’re expecting me to comfort you about that you’re going to be waiting a good long while,” Crowley retorted, and threw himself into the depths of his chair, draping one arm over the back.

Ezra stiffened. “I see,” he said, and pushed his chair back so he could stand up. “I think perhaps I should retire for the evening.”

“Running off, are you?” Crowley drawled, in his most provoking tone. He lounged with aggressive insouciance. “I’m sure that’ll sort it.”

“I believe your point was that it _won’t_ sort anything, but it will prevent you having to waste an evening listening to me cry about it.” He turned, not entirely certain where he planned to go.

“ _Sit_ down,” said Crowley. “You’re going to look at this for once and then it’s going to be done. I won’t have it hanging over our heads for the rest of our lives.”

Ezra didn’t sit, but he turned back. “I am looking at it! And I hate what I did to you, and I don’t know how to fix it! I can tell you’re still angry, Crowley, I can feel it on my skin. I’m not the one keeping it hanging over our heads and I don’t even know _why_.”

“Of course I’m still sodding angry. Are you surprised? After all, I’m Illidari. We don’t forgive. We don’t forget. Isn’t that right.” There was no hint of a question in his voice. “To Hell with that, and priest, I have _been there_. You're forgiven. If you don't feel like you are, maybe the problem isn't me. I've known I wasn't going to live forever since my family died, and there's something you need to remember.” Crowley uncoiled from his chair. The shadows roused from their torpor as Crowley advanced, but Ezra took firmer hold of them; Crowley wasn’t going to _attack_. And indeed he stopped, though not until he was all but nose-to-nose with Ezra. “You’re the one who could still walk away from this,” Crowley snarled.

Ezra’s hands tightened on each other to the point of pain. “Just because I’m human, you think I could leave you?” He could hear his voice going higher, but hearing it and being able to stop it were two different things. “And stop trying to hide behind what people say about you, it’s _nonsense_ and you know it!”

“You sold your soul for me!” Crowley shouted. He spun on his heel, took two steps, and stopped to rake his hands back through his hair.

“Crowley—” Ezra began, but Crowley rounded on him.

“Tell me you would have done it if Ligur hadn’t threatened me,” he said, at a lower volume but no happier. “Can you?”

Ezra took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and said, “Yes. Yes, I would have done it all the same.” Crowley radiated skepticism like a lamp shedding light and Ezra felt his chin go up. “I very nearly _didn’t_ because of you. Without you I’d have never given it a second thought. He was vicious. He had to be stopped, and if stopping him meant the end of me, it would have been a price worth paying.”

For a long, dreadful moment Crowley just stared, but then his shoulders sagged. “Right,” he said, quiet and defeated. “Well. Suppose I have to believe it, you’re absolutely pants at lying.”

Ezra took a step towards him. “My dear...can you tell me why?”

“Why what?” said Crowley, and Ezra suppressed a swell of annoyance. It wasn’t as if he’d never pretended ignorance out of self-defense.

“Why would it make you angry, if I had done it for you?” he said patiently. Crowley took a breath. “ _Besides_ not wanting to put me in danger.”

Crowley swallowed and turned his head, and for another moment Ezra thought he wasn’t going to get an answer—at least, not today.

“I wasn't much of a fighter before the Legion,” said Crowley finally, his voice perfectly matter-of-fact even though he seemed determined to look at the wall rather than at Ezra. “I was good with a bow, against targets, but I'd never learnt much else about physical fighting. So when it came time to decide who was going to run with my brother's children and who was going to stay and hold the door—he stayed. He insisted on staying. I don't know how long he held it, because I walked into a spell and got knocked out.” Ezra discovered he’d been holding his breath and forced himself to stop. “I don't know what happened to the kids, either, I hope they died quickly. All the other possibilities are worse. He trusted me to get them out, he died to give me a chance to do it, and I failed. I wasn't even badly hurt.”

Ezra crossed the distance between them and took Crowley’s hands, hesitated for a moment, and embraced him. Crowley stood straight and rigid for a breath before he relaxed. “No one else dies for me,” he said fiercely, the effect only slightly undercut by saying it into the side of Ezra’s head.

“It’s alright,” said Ezra. He tilted his head back a bit so that they could look at each other. “I understand. Or at least I can imagine.”

“It’s not alright to use it as a stick to beat you with,” said Crowley. “But my _point_ is, it doesn’t matter how long we have, it doesn’t matter whether you changed how long it’ll be. Because before you, I didn’t have it at all.”

Ezra glanced over his shoulder and walked slowly backwards in the direction of a chair, pulling Crowley with him, and sat. “It had to come out somehow, my dear, or it would only get stronger. That’s how shadows work. Everyone’s shadows, not just yours, or mine. And if they get too strong, eventually they’ll pull you under.” He tugged on Crowley’s hands and was rewarded with Crowley hitching one knee up onto the seat.

“Your shadows are at least useful. Mine are just _there_.”

“That’s not at all true.” Ezra slid one hand to the back of Crowley’s neck and settled the other on his waist. “Your shadows are part of what makes you _you_. And you do your best regardless of them, and that’s why you’re my hero.” There wasn’t really room enough on the chair for two adults, but Crowley put more of his weight on his bent leg.

“Rubbish,” he said. “Suppose we do need to get some sleep.”

Ezra made a noise that would have been a groan if he’d put in only a little more effort and said, “That implies moving, and I’m not in favour.”

“I’m not keen myself but you’re leaving in the morning.” Crowley had put on his sensible, practical voice, the one that refused to have fun because he thought he oughtn’t, that he didn’t deserve to. Ezra was getting better at talking him out of it.

“Yes, exactly, I will leave in the morning, for the Light knows how long, and I’ll have to lie to nearly everyone. There will be time for sleep later.”

“I suppose it isn’t that late.”

The key, Ezra had found, was to arrange things so Crowley could feel indulgent. “You’re so good to me, my sun.” Crowley had one hand braced on the chair back; Ezra twined the other with his own.

“Pure self-interest. I’ve almost gotten enough sleep lately, so once you’re gone I won’t know what to do with myself.”

“You could learn all about the plants that grow here,” said Ezra, and brought their joined hands up so he could kiss Crowley’s knuckles. “Or play with Rhion, take him for a walk, go out flying. Or go to the pond and sunbathe.” He rested his cheek on their hands. “Take long baths. Use the training yard.”

“You take things too literally, priest.”

Ezra kissed Crowley’s hand again, on the palm this time. “Then what did you have in mind?”

“Seems like I don’t have to have anything in mind,” said Crowley, utterly failing to sound casual. “Seems like you’ve got that well in hand.”

Ezra traced the path of the veins in Crowley’s wrist with his thumb, enjoying the catch in his breath. “Me? I suppose I do. I want to memorise you.”

“Far be it from me to stop you.”

Ezra slid his hand up Crowley’s forearm and under the cuff of his sleeve. “We don’t always have to do what I want, you know. What do you wish for?”

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it again, and said, “Right now I’d like to not have to think. Probably not on offer.”

It occurred to Ezra that he had a free hand and he curled it around the back of Crowley’s neck. “I think that could be arranged,” he said. “For a while at least.” He pulled and Crowley leant forward the last few inches. Ezra turned into his neck and bit him, gently.

“Good start,” said Crowley, gratifyingly breathless. “Maybe not in the chair, though.”

Ezra bit him again. “But I’m comfortable here.”

“Nnnn, yes, anything you like. But if one of us strains something you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

* * *

Droxi didn't think much of it when a troll bumped into her in the market. Almost everyone was taller than she was—especially in Zandalar, the Zandalari were almost as tall as tauren—and Big Folk tended not to notice people who barely came up to their waists; she got bumped into pretty often. This one was at least polite about it, and apologised rather than yelling at her. It wasn't till she'd gotten back to her quarters, empty for the day because Garnek had taken the rugrats out, that she found the note in one of her bags.

It was short and unsigned, but Droxi had a pretty good idea of who it was from. _Your friend allowed me to strike him in the Swamp of Sorrows_ , it read. _Soon I will need all of the Horde who still have honor to stand with me. My young friend will meet you in Dalaran, to give you a message to carry_. It gave a place and a time.

Droxi stared at the note for a long time, calculating the risks. Crowley had told her just enough of what had happened with Saurfang for her to think it was legitimate, but if she was wrong...it didn't bear thinking about.

But orcs weren't the only ones who had honor. She burned the note rather than risk it being found, and went back to unpacking her bags. When Garnek got home, they were going to have to talk.

* * *

Two days later, Droxi left for Dalaran very early. It seemed only prudent. The Old Hat's chief advantage was that it wasn't the Legerdemain; only Crowley could think _that_ was a discreet place to meet. She meandered through the streets for a while before making her way to the place and securing a booth. The few other patrons didn't seem interested in her. Droxi sat down with a drink and waited.

Not much later, a young troll woman slid into the booth across from her—Darkspear, she thought, not Zandalari, and Droxi was somehow unsurprised to see the woman who'd bumped into her. “Hey mon, you be early. I was expectin’ you later.”

"I've had to do a lot of this sneakin' around lately. Seemed like a good idea to get here in time to make sure no one was waiting for me."

The troll laughed and waved to the bartender. “How rude! _I_ was waitin’ for you! But we be such good friends, I can let it slide.” She went on much more quietly, though her wide smile didn’t fade. “So your friend, he ran into a burnin’ building for a bluecoat, if what I heard be true. That be crazy.”

“That’s what I keep tellin’ him, but does he listen to me? Trick question, by the way.” Droxi took a drink from her mug and said, “So it seems to me we’ve got kinda a problem here.”

“What problems we be havin’?” The bartender dropped off another mug and the troll picked it up. “We can solve whatever problem you got.”

“Well, my problem is that for all I know you’re here to get me to lead you to my friend so someone can arrest him again.” Crowley had looked ghastly when she saw him, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t all from having died getting out of Orgrimmar—and aside from that, Droxi had no desire to end up in a cell herself. “Your problem is pretty much the same, just a different friend.”

“Suspicions be a great way to start a friendship,” the troll said mildly. “I can tell you there be many voices speakin’ around this city, if you can listen while you be drinkin’. Some tongues loosen up enough, they be talkin’ about a romance.”

“Yeah, but someone workin’ for Blightcaller could listen too. You see my issue?”

The troll made an airy gesture and the jade beads on her bracelet rattled. It looked Pandaren, which went with her simple, loose clothing; she was probably a monk. “What can I say, mon? That rogue be carryin’ a bag that ain’t his, that got a sigil from a human shop—same shop where I saw a cloak just like the one you be wearin’. With that and what I hear you sayin’ already, if I wanted I think I be havin’ plenty to take you in. And you ain’t like your friend over there.” She gestured again, this time in the direction of Celebiriel, sitting with a drink of her own across the room. Droxi suppressed a sigh; she’d been hoping Cele would pass unnoticed. The troll went on, “You got something to lose, you got a family.”

Droxi set her mug down hard. “Go ahead, _mon_ ,” she said evenly. “Threaten my kids again.”

“Ah! No, that be _not_ what I mean. Forgive me.” The troll put her hand over her heart and bowed; the effect was somewhat cramped by the table but the meaning carried through. “I mean you got reason to be careful that ain’t just you.”

Droxi studied her for a long moment and then shrugged.

“We be burnin’ daylight here,” the troll said. “Your friend, I know someone who says he wears a golden coin on a necklace. Got an anchor on one side.”

“You know the shaman, don’t you?” Droxi asked. The troll gave an affirmative shrug of her own. Droxi sat back in her seat and came to a decision. “Okay. I can get a message to him, but it’ll take a few days for him to get it.”

With a sardonic twist to her lips, the troll said, “Thing is, your trust problem be solved. Mine still stands.”

“Sure, that’s fair,” Droxi said, and thought it over for a second. “You want to go over to the Legerdemain with me, they can tell you about the time I yelled at the priest for getting my friend killed.”

The troll gave a full-body laugh and said, “I heard that! Fun. Your friend, he makes for good tales.” Her hand dipped below the table for the first time and Droxi tensed, but it came back up with nothing more threatening than a sealed envelope; she offered it. “I be told to ask, mon, you need anything?”

“Me? Nah,” Droxi said, taking the letter. “I mean—when your friend makes his stand, get someone to let me know, huh? I’m sick of fighting.”

“We can do that. Now which of us be goin’ out first and findin’ out she be wrong?” She stood, grinning, and offered a hand clasp.

Droxi took it, matching the expression, and said, “Let’s go together, and if either one's wrong she can take the other one with her.”

The troll laughed again. “A good idea, mon.”


	45. Chapter 45

Mhorduna would have liked to say he was surprised, upon materialising in the arrival hall, to discover that Ezra wasn’t there. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to winkling Ezra out of his room, though at least they weren’t in any hurry. Just in case a miracle had occurred, Mhorduna checked a few other places Ezra might be; he was not, of course, in any of them and Mhorduna sighed and stopped dawdling. _It’s a better plan_ , he thought. His internal voice didn’t sound convinced. _We don’t want to advertise that Crowley’s here, if this goes roots up there won’t be much against the guild as a whole. And he’ll have time to run for it._

At the door he stopped and listened carefully. There was an encouraging lack of sound from the other side, so Mhorduna risked a quick glance. Two figures on the bed, one of them clearly awake as he was propped on one elbow; from the build it had to be Ezra. Mhorduna stopped looking before he could accidentally catch anything more personal. He liked Ezra, loved him like a brother in fact, but there were some things he didn’t need to see. He knocked.

“It can’t be time to go already,” Ezra complained, faint through the door.

“Not quite, but you should start thinking about it,” said Mhorduna. Ezra, they’d all found, was a person of profound inertia. Getting him started tended to be a problem—though by the same token, once he had fixed on a goal he was hard to stop, and any guild worth their hire recognised that for the gift it was. “Get dressed, please.”

“Yes, boss,” said Ezra, sounding resigned.

“I’ll go ask for something to eat,” said Mhorduna.

* * *

Between the knocking and the voices, Crowley was half-awake when Ezra murmured, “We need to get out of bed, my sun.”

“Who wazzat?” Crowley asked. It wasn’t the most articulate thing he’d ever said but Ezra knew what he was getting into, trying to wake a person up.

Ezra sighed and said, “Mhorduna, of course. He’s come to pick me up.” He traced the tendon in Crowley’s neck with his fingers, shivery-light, and then seemed to get diverted, probably by the marks he’d left.

It wasn’t that Crowley hadn’t known how sensitive his own neck was—he was several hundred years old, he’d had lovers. But the last one had been some time before the Legion, and then he’d had other concerns, and he was still getting reacquainted with the sensation of being touched. It turned out one could only suppress that sort of awareness for so long, in the face of Ezra's determined assaults. “You can’t tell me I need to get out of bed and then do this,” said Crowley. He tried for annoyed, but only managed plaintive.

“Indulge me. Let me admire you for a moment,” said Ezra, and there wasn’t much Crowley could do about _that_. But only a breath later Ezra sighed and rolled over, the better to stand up. “But you’re right. Mhorduna will be back with breakfast soon.”

“Somehow I don’t feel like I’ve won,” Crowley told the ceiling. He stretched and sat up. Getting out of bed lacked appeal, but he’d done more difficult things in his life. “Did you see where my shirt—oh, never mind.”

Ezra, who had fetched up at the small mirror, gazed into it and raised one hand to a mark on his own neck. “I think I’ll keep mine,” he said. “They can only add to the story.”

“You’re a menace,” said Crowley. “I don’t think the story needs any additions. Your guild has too much fun with it as it stands.”

“The other story.” Ezra sounded morose about it. Crowley wasn’t happy himself, but if dealing with Hastur meant letting people think Mhorduna had caused Ezra’s love-bites, he didn’t plan to argue.

“Right, right. You’re going to watch your back, yeah?”

Ezra turned away from the mirror and came over to lean his forehead into Crowley’s shoulder. “I’ll hardly need to.”

Crowley cleared his throat pointedly and repeated, “You’re going to watch your back, yeah?”

Ezra huffed but said, “As you wish.” He straightened. “Kiss me. It’ll give me the strength to finish dressing.”

“Oh, is that what it’ll do?” Crowley drawled, and obliged. When they parted he said, “And try not to get sucked into any magical whirlpools this time.”

“I doubt I shall have the opportunity,” said Ezra primly. “Today I plan to hide in my rooms in Boralus and sleep. Now let me heal those for you.”

“Didn’t you sleep? You need rest, priest, the stakes are a little higher these days than mis-shelving a book.” For such superficial injuries magical healing felt like nothing but pleasant warmth.

“I tried, but I suppose I was distracted. Not even counting sheep worked.”

What sheep had to do with it Crowley didn’t know, but he supposed it was a human thing. “Next time wake me up and we’ll see if we can’t tire you out properly,” he said. From the direction of the door someone coughed politely and Crowley sighed. Surely he’d used to _notice_ when someone came up behind him.

“Your breakfast is here,” said Mhorduna. He wasn’t actually laughing but it was perfectly clear from his tone of voice that he rather wanted to be. Crowley let his head drop forward and put a hand over his face.

“Oh, lovely,” said Ezra, more cheerfully, and bustled off. After a moment Crowley followed him.

As he passed, Mhorduna said, “Don’t worry, brother. I know what it’s like.”

Crowley paused, his eyebrows going up. It wasn’t a complicated calculation, given what they had in common. “The Legion,” he said.

Mhorduna nodded. “Let’s break our fast, and then Ezra and I should leave.”

They got settled quickly enough, but Ezra didn’t approach his meal with his usual enthusiasm. “We don’t have to do this,” said Mhorduna after a minute or two of watching him poke his food. “It may be better not to if you don’t think you can be convincing.”

“That’s what these are for,” said Ezra, waving at his own neck. “No offense, boss, but I don’t want to kiss you to make our point.”

“You aren’t really my type, so I appreciate that,” said Mhorduna. Crowley snorted. “It would help if you called me something other than ‘boss’, though.”

Ezra twirled his fork thoughtfully against his plate. “What would you suggest, 'starlight'?”

Mhorduna sucked air sharply through his teeth and said, “Better not. What do humans say?” Crowley kept his attention firmly on his plate; that math wasn’t difficult to do either.

“People say all sorts of things. 'My heart', maybe.”

“That will do, if you’re sure.”

“Sure is asking rather a lot, I feel,” said Ezra, and sighed. “But it’s for the best. Maka needs a good reason to get angry.”

“Alright, then.”

“We can use my rooms. We’ll have privacy. In a tavern it’d be too easy for someone to eavesdrop and my mattresses are better than the guilds’.”

“You probably have thicker walls, too,” said Mhorduna blandly.

“Oh, I like that,” said Crowley. “If you’re looking through the walls you deserve whatever you see.”

“No one has to look through walls to know what you’re getting up to,” said Mhorduna. “We have _ears_.”

“I don’t suppose you know what the weather is supposed to be like today in Boralus,” said Ezra brightly, before Crowley managed to swallow his mouthful of...something fried.

“I’m afraid I didn’t ask,” said Mhorduna.

“Oh, that’s all right, I’m sure I’ll be able to tell once I’m there.”

Crowley, who _could_ take a hint, thank you, applied himself more diligently to his breakfast. When they’d finished, Ezra went off to fetch his bags.

Mhorduna waited a moment after Ezra had left the room. “Are you certain about this?”

"Well, it's a little late to be asking." Mhorduna said nothing; Crowley sighed. “I don’t like the plan, but you know it’s not because I doubt him, or you. I don’t like him being back in Boralus. This part? It makes him safer. It’s still not comfortable to have people thinking, but...” He waved a hand to convey _but no one has a better idea_ and stabbed another fried chunk with his fork. He knew what the draenei called the dish, but that didn’t help him figure out what it actually _was_. “Makavi will be in the most immediate danger.”

“She doesn’t care. She’s been reckless as long as I’ve known her and Teldrassil only made it worse.” Crowley grimaced sympathetically. “It’s not so bad when she’s just back from Northrend. I envy her that—having a place to go.”

“Ezra said she visits a grave.”

“She doesn’t talk about it much, and it happened before I met her, but I’ve picked up on a bit. He was human, she never told him, and he died fighting Deathwing.” Mhorduna shrugged. “But it means nobody outside the guild knows that she already lost her One.” He used the Darnassian word rather than the Common, but it was easy enough to recognise.

“So it’s not just that you’ve taken up with Ezra and are coddling him, it’s that you’re not returning her bond.”

“It’s a big, obvious reason that will hide other possible reasons.”

“Makes sense,” said Crowley. “I should go find Ezra, you two need to be leaving.”

“I’ll look after him.”

“I know, my thanks, but look after yourself too. I don’t have so many brothers I can afford to lose one.”

Mhorduna laughed and said, “You’d never know to hear some people talk about the plague of Illidari.”

“There were a few times in the Isles I’d have given a lot for twice as many of us.”

“Three times,” said Mhorduna. “Four.”

“While we’re wishing, let’s wish Hastur turns himself in.”

“I didn’t want Ezra to hear this, but we have another three recovering. We need to move quickly.”

“Just don’t let him do anything stupid, yeah?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

* * *

When Crowley opened the door, he found Ezra sitting on the bed, winding a length of cloth through his fingers. “I suppose it’s time to leave,” he said.

“Yeah, well, sooner you go, sooner it’ll be over with.”

“Come and sit with me for a moment.” Crowley did. Ezra slumped over into his side and said, “I think I should leave my ring here. It’s not something Mhorduna would have given me. And my gloves, and I suppose my Thalassian books.” He held up the cloth: Crowley’s old blindfold, and Crowley marvelled once again at the packrat tendencies. “Would it be suspicious to take this at least?”

“One blindfold’s a lot like another, and Mhorduna’s Illidari too. If it makes you feel better, take it.”

Ezra nodded. “Will you keep the ring for me?”

“Hand it over.” Ezra did; Crowley took it and threaded it onto the chain that held his coin. “There, can’t lose it.”

Ezra stood up, his hands clasped, and said, “Thank you, my dear. I’ll...well, I’d ask for a kiss but I’m not sure I can stop at one.”

“Well, I can,” said Crowley, and kissed him. He did let it go on for a bit longer than was probably ideal but by now he could tell when Ezra’s hands wanted to start wandering and stepped away before it could get to that point. “Right. Go get this over with.”

* * *

They heard Makavi’s voice from around the corner, which was something of a feat given the bustle of the docks on a working day. “A _week_ in Brennadam as healing support? Not even _scouting_? This is starting to get insulting, Lis.”

Alicia’s reply was inaudible. Ezra tried not to tense up, and reminded himself again to walk closer to Mhorduna than he usually would.

“Yeah? So where’s he to tell me that? He told me to meet him here and he isn’t here!”

“It’s not real,” Mhorduna muttered.

“That doesn’t help,” Ezra replied at the same volume, as they rounded the corner.

Alicia had her hands up placatingly; Makavi wasn’t letting herself be placated. “That’s not better!” she exclaimed.

“What isn’t?” Mhorduna asked. “I’m sorry we’re late.” He sounded sincere enough; it was just very unfortunate that the whole point of this scene was for it not to work.

Makavi spun and snapped, “There you are! What’s the excuse this time? I’m keeping track of all the ways you avoid saying ‘I didn’t want to get out of bed with my little secret’.” Ezra winced. It made sense to use the phrase, in case someone outside the guild had heard it mentioned, but he couldn’t say he enjoyed the ruse.

“Maka, it’s hardly a secret,” said Mhorduna. “We’re just being discreet.”

Makavi scoffed with her entire body. “Have it your way. I’m not going to Brennadam, I am _sick_ of covering for Ezra and I want a _fight_.”

“Makavi,” said Mhorduna, with a bit of warning in his tone. Ezra thought about what he would do if this were Crowley, and took a half-step closer. “This is the assignment we need to cover, and Ezra can’t do it. I’m sorry, but it’s your job this time.”

“This time,” Maka repeated, and threw her hands in the air. “You say that like it hasn’t been _my job_ every blessed time for the last I don’t even know how long. Ezra’s right here, he looks fine, he could go if you were willing to let him out of your sight! Alicia can go!”

“Alicia has another assignment already, as you well know—or ought to. And no, Ezra can’t go.”

“Ezra can’t go. Ezra needs rest. Ezra this, Ezra that, who’s running this guild anyway?” She huffed and continued in Darnassian, “You _know_ you’re neglecting us—your responsibilities. You know that! Why are you being so selfish?”

“That’s not—” Ezra began, but subsided when Mhorduna held up a hand.

“Just what are you accusing me of, Makavi?” he asked, his voice coloured with anger.

“Oh, have I not been clear enough?” Makavi sneered. “You’re more interested in dallying with your new pet than in running the guild, and furthermore you have _me_ nursemaiding him and covering for him because you _know_ I’ll do anything you ask!”

Ezra couldn’t stop his hands from clenching, but it wasn’t out of character; he hated confrontation like this and the whole thing being a sham didn’t help.

“Do you truly have so little faith in me?” asked Mhorduna.

“I had faith in you,” said Maka, and suddenly there were tears in her voice. “I would have followed you anywhere. But now? All you care about is him. You don’t care what anyone else wants. You are keeping me from my _vengeance_ , and of all people in the _world_ you should know what that feels like!” For a long, terrible moment no one spoke or moved; then Maka abruptly tore her tabard off over her head. She reverted to Common, which Ezra thought was a nice touch—or not nice, but effective. “No. You know what? I’ve survived alone before. I will have my vengeance without you.” She threw the tabard at Ezra and he nearly fumbled it. She gave him a scornful up-and-down scan and said, “Hide those marks. ‘Discreet’!” She turned on her heel and marched away.

Ezra looked down at the tabard and tried to breathe evenly.

“Makavi!” Mhorduna called. She didn’t turn, or look back, or even make a rude gesture.

“Well,” said Alicia after a moment. “That could have gone better.”


	46. Chapter 46

Michael wore her fully human face when she went in search of the night elf. She didn’t wear any Archangel insignia either; she didn’t want to be obvious, in case the expedition went badly. They'd had enough minor embarrassments lately; they didn’t need another.

She found Makavi in a tavern—not a dive, but not exactly upper-end either. The kind of place where you could get drunk in relative safety and without too much expense. She was at a table in the corner, and from the looks of things she'd been drinking steadily since not long after Uriel and Sandalphon saw her. Michael got herself a drink, and asked for more of whatever the elf'd been drinking, and went over to the table.

She set the bottle down and settled into a chair. “Drowning your sorrows?”

Makavi looked up in mild surprise and said, “That would mean I have sorrows to drown.”

“Well, I wouldn't want to doubt the word of a fellow druid, but in my experience when someone has a public row with her guildmaster and then goes to a tavern to get drunk, she's drowning her sorrows at least a little,” Michael said, pushing the bottle in Makavi’s direction. “Though I could be wrong.”

Makavi laughed, the sort of laugh that would have sounded more sincere if she’d just said _ha ha_ and been done with it. “ _Ex_ -guildmaster. I’m just stocking up a bit. I hear there’s passage to Zandalar in the morning, and no one to stop me taking it. It’ll be fun.”

“You’re really going to hit Zandalar alone? That’s a good way to lose anything you take with you.”

Makavi grinned, wide and feral. “Only if they take me down.”

Michael smiled in return. This particular recruitment was looking better all the time. They’d debated trying to pry Makavi loose from the Them before, but she’d always seemed too devoted to Mhorduna. “We could use someone with real enthusiasm,” Michael said. “We’ve put off vengeance for Teldrassil long enough.” It wasn’t even a lie; Michael had loved Darnassus when she and the other Gilneans were taken in there.

“Don’t let me start about that,” said Makavi, and picked up the bottle. She made a bit of a production out of opening it and refreshing her drink before saying, “I want to fight. I won’t heal for you, I’m sick to death of that. _Oh Maka, we’re short healers, you can do it, can’t you?_ ” She made a rude noise. “Take some potions and handle it yourself. I have better things to do.”

Michael didn’t try to hide a bit of disappointment, but she didn't necessarily object to someone else who wanted to get into the thick of it either. “We always need more healers, who doesn’t? But I’d hate to waste talent.”

Makavi shrugged thoughtfully. “Well. Balance in all things. I can heal _occasionally_. One time in five, say?”

“I suspect we can agree to that,” said Michael.

“We’re writing this down,” said Makavi, and drank. “I’m not taking a chance with just assuming, not this time.”

“That’s fair enough. So what happened? Uriel said they couldn’t make out much of what you were saying.” They’d had the presence of mind to ask a few people who were closer, but Michael wanted the unfiltered perspective.

“I’m sick of babysitting Mhorduna’s flavour of the week,” said Makavi flatly.

“Sorry, flavour of the week?”

“Bed warmer.”

“Mhorduna’s...sleeping with someone?” That would accord with a few stray rumours she’d caught, anyway.

“Ezra,” said Makavi. “If you can call it sleeping.”

Michael stopped a look of distaste from crossing her face; elves never seemed to care much about men going to bed together. “Well, that’s a little unprofessional of them, but why’s it worth leaving the guild over?” Fallwater’s blood elf must’ve been out of the picture—if he had any sense he’d still be running. Sylvanas Windrunner wasn’t known for leniency when personally crossed.

Makavi slumped in her chair. “You lived in Darnassus, you must have heard people talking about how it works for us. Mhorduna’s acting like Ezra is his _love_.”

Michael blinked in surprise. Though she was far from fluent she knew a bit of Darnassian, and that word, from what she’d gathered, meant something more than simply a romantic partner. “Does that even work with a human?”

“It can,” said Makavi, pain clear in her voice. “Ezra can’t give it back, not like—well. But that doesn’t matter. It’s enough that Mhorduna feels it. _If_ he feels it. If he’s not just dallying for fun.”

 _Not like—well_. Michael suspected she knew how that sentence had originally been meant to end, but Makavi’s possibly-broken heart wasn’t the issue at hand. “I know Ezra’s your friend, but he’s not exactly front-line material.” It was a shame, really, the man could be spectacularly effective when he let himself, but he was too meek to do it. “Keeping him out of combat seems like the rational thing, bed partner or not.”

Makavi snorted. “If it was just keeping him out of combat, I wouldn’t care. I don’t want Ezra to get hurt either! But that’s not what Mhorduna’s doing. It’s been weeks since Ezra has had an assignment anywhere Mhorduna couldn’t go too, and that meant _I_ ended up in the goddess-blasted hospital tents. I can’t know whether Ezra really is Mhorduna’s love, I can only know mine, but it doesn’t matter. It’s no excuse for acting like you’re tied together at the wrist.”

Michael sipped her drink for a moment to think. “I’m glad humans don’t do it the elven way,” she said.

Makavi’s huff of laughter sounded more sincere this time, if not exactly whole-hearted. “Yeah, lucky you. All of you. So are we writing this down, or am I going Horde-hunting alone? Even if you can’t accept my terms you could still come along with me.”

“You need to come talk to Gabriel—I can't make this decision alone. But I can't imagine he'll object too much.”

“Let’s go talk, then,” said Makavi, draining her cup.

“I think you and I are going to get along just fine,” said Michael, smiling. With any luck at all she’d be able to get Makavi to spill where exactly they’d been stashing Fallwater all this time, too. That bit of information might calm Hastur down; he’d gone absolutely incandescent when the blood elf had escaped.

“What’s that human saying?” said Makavi. She pushed to her feet and swayed a bit before stabilising. “You rub my belly, I’ll rub yours?”

Michael laughed and said, “It’s ‘scratch my back,’ actually, but I think I like yours better.”

* * *

In Shadowmoon Valley the sun wasn’t quite over the horizon when someone knocked at Crowley’s door. He hauled himself out of bed on the assumption that the draenei knew better than to wake him for something trivial.

The knocker proved to be one of the draenei indeed, one of the younger ones who’d unbent enough that she would spar with him.

“Yeah?” He felt pretty sure he’d managed to make it sound like a sincere inquiry, at least.

“Mhorduna is here to see you,” she said. “He said he would bring food.”

Crowley resolutely ignored the shiver that ran up his spine. Surely Mhorduna would have told her to say something, if he were bringing bad news. “Tell him he doesn’t have to wait,” he said.

She nodded and went off to do that, and Crowley stood at the door for a few seconds. Hadn’t he decided he’d _know_ if something were seriously wrong with Ezra?

It didn’t help much more this time than it had the last. Crowley shook his head and went in search of something resembling real clothes.

Mhorduna knocked just as he was lacing his breeches, and he grabbed a shirt. “It’s not bolted,” he said.

As promised, Mhorduna carried a tray, which he set down in favour of offering an envelope. “This is for you.”

“Nothing’s wrong then,” said Crowley.

“Nothing. Ezra’s in Brennadam, that’s why they gave it to me, and I can’t stay long but I thought it probably needed to get to you as soon as possible.”

Crowley slit the envelope with a fingernail and pulled out the message.

“Maka’s wearing the Archangels’ tabard,” said Mhorduna. “Ezra...he didn’t take it well, but I suppose that only adds credibility.”

Crowley nodded absently, distracted by the effort of reading the message. His reading speed wasn’t what it had once been, but it wasn’t a long note. He read it twice and then held it out in Mhorduna’s direction. “I’m going to have to leave.”

“You spend too much time with Ezra,” said Mhorduna. “I can’t read Orcish.”

“Yeah, right, course you can’t,” said Crowley, already distracted. “I need—Saurfang’s gathering people, and he wants everyone he can get. We’re marching on Orgrimmar. Dustwallow, I have to get to Dustwallow.” He ducked around Mhorduna to retrieve his bag from its place.

“That’s not exactly on the next branch. Do you need transportation? Weapons, armour? I do have some spare equipment.”

“I have gear, and a windrider, did you know Ezra has a lot of money? I didn’t at first.”

“He’s very generous with it, when he remembers that not everyone does.”

Crowley huffed and opened the bag to check what he’d left in it. “I’ll leave him a note here.”

“I’ll tell him what’s happened when I see him, then. I think it’s safer if we don’t send unnecessary letters.”

“You should find out what Anduin-King is doing, I’d think,” said Crowley. “Saurfang said—well, I think Anduin will be in support of this, one way or another.”

Mhorduna nodded thoughtfully and said, “You’re probably right. Is there anything specific I should tell Ezra?”

Crowley’s hands stilled on his bag and he looked down at them rather than at Mhorduna. “Tell him that if this goes wrong I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Assuming he lived through whatever went wrong, of course.

“He misses you,” said Mhorduna. “He’s been sleeping with one of your blindfolds.”

Crowley didn’t have the wherewithal to respond to that; instead he said, “I’ll see you at Orgrimmar.”

“From a distance, at least.” Mhorduna offered a handclasp and Crowley took it. “There will be too many eyes.”

“If this goes the way I expect, that won’t matter so much,” said Crowley. _Expect_ was a bit of a strong term, but he’d been trying to look on the bright side.

“Eat before you leave,” said Mhorduna. Crowley shrugged at him. “I need to get back to Kul Tiras. Elune be with you, brother, and he isn’t here to say it, so mind how you go.”

“Don’t get killed.”

When Mhorduna had vanished, Crowley packed, ate, and supplied himself with paper, pen, and ink. Confronted with the expanse of empty page, he stalled; there wasn’t nearly time enough to write everything he would have liked to write. He settled for the bare bones of what was happening and what he planned to do.

It didn’t seem like enough. Crowley unclasped his necklace and removed Ezra’s ring; it fit nicely on his middle finger. He folded the necklace into the note, took a deep breath, and picked up his bag. His armour and weapons were in the barracks; Rhion was in the stable. It was going to be a long trip.

* * *

Mhorduna cursed under his breath as he hurried through the streets of Boralus, as fast as he could move without admitting to running. He’d expected to be back from his azerite-gathering expedition before Ezra finished his assignment in Brennadam, but instead he’d spent a day and a half longer than planned playing hunt-and-chase with the Fallen.

A few of them, anyway; Elune be praised, Hastur had not been there. But Baelsebë had, and that had been an entirely different problem.

Dedication to one’s faction was of course an admirable trait, but in Mhorduna’s opinion Baelsebë took their commitment well beyond dedication, to ruthlessness and downright viciousness. They had somehow managed to part one of Mhorduna’s companions from all of his loose gear, down to his damned helmet, and of course including his hearthstone; Mhorduna and the other Alliance member of the expedition had had a bit of a time of it making sure the man didn’t get killed before their ship got back to pick them up, and they’d all three spent a hell of a lot of time running. Baelsebë had been far more interested in killing than in collecting the azerite that they’d undoubtedly also been sent for, which was entirely typical of them, and of anyone else they took into their guild.

In general, Mhorduna thought of the Horde as much like the Alliance, full of people who fought because they felt it was their duty. But then there were guilds like the Fallen.

And it meant that Mhorduna was back in Boralus _after_ Ezra had almost certainly returned, which further meant that he hadn’t had a chance to break the news of Crowley’s departure gently. And _that_ meant that Mhorduna was very overdue to get back and take over the job of keeping Ezra from haring off into the distance in pursuit of Crowley, if he felt so inclined.

As Mhorduna neared their usual meeting point, he caught sight of Siegrunë and—damn it—Avadarra. She’d been in Brennadam as Ezra’s bodyguard, so that was the end of his faint hope that Ezra had been somehow delayed. At least neither of his officers looked agitated, but he couldn’t exactly start a conversation on sensitive matters; Michael of the Archangels stood browsing the wares on display at a nearby stall, in upright worgen form. To all appearances she was ignoring the Them, but her ears were more than sensitive enough to catch anything they might say above a whisper.

On the other hand, since she was here, he might as well take advantage. He saw Sieg catch sight of him, and as soon as she did Mhorduna snapped, “Where the _hell_ is Ezra?”

“Hey, boss,” said Sieg. “We sent him to you-know-where to rest up.” They didn’t name the garrison in public; it was much better kept a guild secret.

“You sent him—I explicitly said he wasn’t to go _anywhere_ alone!” For once, not having visible eyes was a perk; Mhorduna could easily watch Michael without being obvious about it. He assumed that she was doing a decent job of hiding her interest in the conversation for those with conventional sight, but he could see her body language better, in much the same way that people afflicted with colourblindness had an easier time seeing through camouflage.

“Relax, he’s fine there,” said Sieg. She sounded light, which meant she understood what he was doing.

“Relax? When I give an order I expect it to be obeyed!”

“We escorted him to the portal,” said Avadarra.

“I didn’t tell you to escort him to the portal.”

“Boss,” Siegrunë began; Mhorduna cut her off with a gesture.

“Never mind. _I’m_ going to go check on him since apparently I can’t trust my officers to do it.” He turned and stomped away, muttering under his breath as he went. He'd have to buy Sieg and Avadarra drinks later.

* * *

Ezra was a bit disappointed to open the door and discover that Crowley wasn’t in their room. Then he asked one of the draenei guards, and mild disappointment turned to dread.

Bad enough that Crowley had gone; worse that Ezra suspected he knew why he’d left.

Ingrained manners carried him through thanking the guard and closing the door. Ezra turned and surveyed the room more carefully. His eye caught on the space normally occupied by one of the few things Crowley left out: the chessboard had been replaced by a note.

He approached it slowly, as if sneaking up on it would make its contents more palatable, and picked it up to discover the paper had been wrapped around something. Crowley’s necklace slid into his hand, and Ezra could not decide whether he was happy that his ring had been removed from the chain.

He felt the shadows stirring, and hastily unfolded the note to read it before they could try anything.

The words spidered their way across the page. Ezra wondered for a moment if Crowley’s handwriting had always been so jagged, better suited to arcane runes or Dwarvish than the loops and curves of the elvish languages, or if it were somehow an effect of Illidari vision; he had never seen Mhorduna’s writing for comparison—he shook his head against the distraction and sat in the desk chair.

The note, short and matter-of-fact as it was, made tears rise in his eyes. Ezra didn’t try to stop them; he had no one, just now, for whom he needed to be stoic. Crowley had gone to answer Saurfang’s call at last, and the fact that he’d be joining a small army wasn’t terribly reassuring. Saurfang might have an army, but Sylvanas had a larger one, and a supremely defensible position besides, and hadn’t Crowley said that Illidari weren’t well suited for sieges?

All Ezra could do now was wait, and hope that the Alliance would go to the aid of those who opposed the Banshee Queen.

It took several tries to fasten the chain around his own neck because of the way his fingers trembled. When he managed it Ezra pressed the pendant to his chest. _Come back to me_ , he thought, and meant the words every bit as much as Jaina Proudmoore ever had. _Please be safe, my sun._


	47. Chapter 47

A knock jarred Ezra out of unhappy reverie. The pillow he clutched to his chest retained very little of Crowley’s scent, and none at all of his warmth, but Ezra needed to do something lest he go charging off in the direction of Dustwallow Marsh.

“Yes, who’s there?” He congratulated himself on sounding relatively normal.

“It’s me,” said Mhorduna.

Ezra considered putting the pillow down, or at least sitting up straight, and then decided that Mhorduna had seen him worse than huddled against the headboard. “Come in, it’s not bolted.”

Mhorduna did, closing the door behind him, and said, “Did you find the note?”

“Yes,” said Ezra. The coin made a reassuring weight and he tightened his grip on both it and the pillow. “Knowing where he’s going doesn’t help. He could be walking into a trap.”

Mhorduna sighed and took a chair. “If it helps at all, I don’t think it’s a trap. There are rumours about Saurfang that we're hearing even in Kul Tiras. You don't have to pay attention to gossip; I do.”

“I suppose that’s a relief.” Ezra burrowed his chin into the pillow. “But he’s still in danger. And if this hurts him as much as it does me, he’ll be distracted.”

“I don't know how much Crowley has told you about what we did to become Illidari. We're used to not letting pain distract us,” said Mhorduna. “In the meantime, you can’t let yourself waste away.”

At that Ezra did sit up. “How am I supposed to go on with this? How do I smile at you while he could be going to his death?” He knew it was irrational to be angry with Mhorduna, but it made him feel marginally better—or, at least, miserable in a different way.

“You needn’t smile for the sake of a ruse. There are any number of things that could be worrying you.”

Ezra sighed. Anger had been nice, for the brief moments it had lasted. “I suppose we might as well go back to Boralus. I can mope just as well there as here.” He put the pillow down and got resolutely to his feet. “I didn’t have time to unpack—” He had, several times over, but he hadn’t bothered to use it which came to much the same thing. “—so we can go whenever you like. My...my sweet.” If the look on Mhorduna’s face were anything to go by, he needed even more practice with the endearments than he’d thought.

All Mhorduna said, however, was, “It’s odd to hear you say that.”

“It’s odd to say. Let’s just go.”

Mhorduna stood too. “He’ll be fine.”

“He had better be,” said Ezra, and let the shadows seep into the air around him, just a little bit. “Or there won’t be a safe place to be Horde.”

“Even with your shadows you can’t take the whole Horde alone, Ezra.”

“Just try me,” Ezra snapped. “What would you do, in my place?”

“I fought the Legion,” said Mhorduna, his voice perfectly flat. “But I didn’t try to do it alone.”

Understanding hit like a slap. Ezra had never asked what loss had pushed Mhorduna into joining the Illidari; it hadn’t seemed polite to pry. “Oh, oh dear, I’m so sorry, of course—”

Mhorduna shook his head and said, “You didn’t know. So I _do_ understand, and if something happens to him, which Elune forfend, I would be the last to tell you not to take vengeance. It's just that you can't do it alone.”

“I’m tired of asking people to put themselves at risk for us, for _me_.”

“We didn't have to help you break him out of Orgrimmar, and we're all grown people,” said Mhorduna.

“And if you weren’t associated with me, you wouldn’t be at risk.” He couldn’t wring his hands, burdened as they were with bags.

“Ezra,” said Mhorduna seriously, “it is in no way your fault that a rabid dog like Hastur has decided to try to hurt you. It is inconvenient that the one you love is sin'dorei, but if it weren't for Hastur inconvenience is _all_ it would be. I know I can't stop you blaming yourself, but the rest of us don't blame you.”

Ezra thought that Mhorduna was underplaying the problem of faction affiliation by quite a lot, but getting into a wrangle over it seemed unproductive. “You don’t need to blame me,” he said instead. “Shall we go?”

* * *

As they left the Boralus portal room, Mhorduna took one of Ezra’s bags from him, and was mildly surprised when Ezra, unprompted, linked their arms together to walk. They didn’t talk on the few minutes’ walk to the rendezvous point. Sieg was talking to someone, a human man Mhorduna vaguely recognised—one of the captains who lent his ship to the cause of expeditions to the islands for azerite. He wore his long hair tied back, and like many Kul Tirans he was tall for a human. As Mhorduna and Ezra neared, it became obvious that he wasn’t talking to Siegrunë for purely social purposes.

“You really trying to tell me you don’t know where to find your boss?”

“I don’t know where he is every moment of every day!” said Sieg, sounding as if she’d said it three or four times already.

“I’m right here,” said Mhorduna.

“There, see? I told you he’d be back today,” Siegrunë told the human. At her feet, Raka’s tail swept the pavement in greeting.

“I’m Mhorduna,” he said to the human. “I take it you need something.”

“Well, not me, mate, I’m just doing a favour for a friend. Flynn Fairwind—me, not the friend. Master Shaw wants to see you.”

“Master Shaw?”

The man gave an expansive, easy shrug. “He’s the friend.”

Mhorduna felt himself tense in wary surprise, and Ezra’s grip on his arm tightened a bit, though he couldn’t tell whether it was only in response to his own reaction or if Ezra also recognised the name of the spymaster of Stormwind and, by extension, the Alliance. It wasn’t completely unheard-of for Shaw to recruit an individual guild for some sort of special mission, but usually his choices were more oriented to stealth than open combat. “I’m at Master Shaw’s disposal, of course, but I’d like to escort my...friend home first.”

Before he’d quite finished speaking Fairwind had begun to shake his head. “Nope, can’t do it, took me too long to find you and I’ve got other people to track down. As it is we’ve got to hop to it. Sorry.” To his credit, the apology didn’t seem to be entirely for form’s sake.

“And I assume he can’t just come along.”

Another apologetic shrug. Mhorduna sighed and turned to Ezra. “Alright. You stay with Sieg. Do you hear me? I don’t care what happens.” Ezra nodded. “Sieg—”

“Got it, boss,” she said. “Gnoklu will be along soon and the three of us can go back to base.”

“Not out of your _sight_ this time, Sieg, I mean it.”

“Got it, boss,” she repeated indulgently.

That was probably enough reinforcement of their masquerade, so Mhorduna turned back to Fairwind. “Lead the way.”

Their route took them within a block of the guild’s rooms, but Mhorduna didn’t feel antagonistic enough to point that out. At the entrance to the Lord Admiral’s Palace, which he’d previously seen only from the outside, Fairwind handed him off to an attendant and departed with a cheerful farewell. Mhorduna, feeling more uneasy with every step, followed the attendant through the corridors to a secluded room; she opened the door, gestured him through it, and closed it again behind him.

Inside, light fell through high, narrow windows onto a large table. Behind it stood Mathias Shaw. At the sound of the door he looked up from the mass of papers spread over the surface before him. Behind _him_ , in a chair that stood in shadow, sat Genn Greymane, king of Gilneas, and Mhorduna’s heart sank even further, if that were possible. Shaw was the Alliance’s spymaster, but Greymane was known to be canny in his own right—not to mention a worgen, and thus a combatant to be reckoned with, and carrying a king’s authority besides.

“You’re Mhorduna of the Them?” said Shaw.

Mhorduna nodded, thinking furiously. “I am. At your service.”

“Not mine, Guildmaster,” said Shaw. He nodded at a chair and continued, “Sit. There’s no need to be uncomfortable while we talk.” Their chairs faced one another across a corner of the table. Silence stretched; Mhorduna fought off the urge to fill it. Any sort of verbal debate with Shaw would be a fight against a more skilled opponent, and Mhorduna couldn’t afford to give up any advantage.

Finally, Shaw said, “It was your guild that—let’s say _extracted_ the demon hunter Crowley from Orgrimmar.” Mhorduna had little hope that his sharp breath went unnoticed, but Shaw’s tone didn’t change. “By all accounts you accepted considerable extra risk to do so with as little loss of life as possible.”

“It was my responsibility,” said Mhorduna.

“Oh?” said Shaw, sounding only mildly curious. “Did you order your guild members to help you?”

Mhorduna hesitated over the reply for long enough to render lying useless. “No. I left it to their personal decisions.” They’d all known they might be found out.

Shaw nodded and said, “King Wrynn has need of people who would make such a personal decision.”

A moment passed. “What?” Mhorduna said. That sounded considerably less _accusatory_ than he’d been expecting.

“Varok Saurfang is moving against Sylvanas,” said Greymane from his shadowed seat. Loathing, faint but undeniable, accompanied the Banshee Queen’s name. He stood, and as he crossed to the table Mhorduna came to a decision: he’d been caught poaching, so he might as well take a deer as a rabbit. Besides, both Greymane and Shaw could surely tell that the news didn’t surprise him.

“He’s rallying troops,” he said. “Marching on Orgrimmar.”

“Yes,” said Shaw, “and King Wrynn is going with him.”

Mhorduna had once told Ezra that it was rare for one of the Illidari to misjudge a threat; he only hoped this wasn’t one of those times. “And are the Alliance troops mustering in Dustwallow Marsh as well?”

“I see I’m not the only one with access to unusual sources of information,” said Shaw.

“Crowley told me,” said Mhorduna. “He’s on his way there, if he hasn’t made it already.”

“We’re meeting Saurfang’s troops in Dustwallow,” said Greymane. “And when I say ‘we’, I include you and your guild, if you’re willing.”

“The whole guild? Surely taking whole guilds is removing too many people from the front lines.” The entirety of the Them had rarely been committed to one operation, but Mhorduna couldn’t say he was averse to the idea of participating in the removal of Sylvanas Windrunner. Teldrassil had been his home just as much as it had been Makavi’s.

“There are plenty of people who hate the Horde and can hold the front lines,” said Shaw. “We need people who can be trusted to help the king and Saurfang.”

Greymane sighed, put his fists on the table, and leant his weight on them. “Sylvanas _must_ be stopped. She is bent on slaughter. If she was ever worthy to lead the Horde, she is not any longer.”

“I’ll need to talk to my people, but I can’t think of many who might say no to this. Even if none of the rest of them choose to go, I will.”

“We’ll send someone for your final tally in the morning,” said Shaw. “Try to be discreet, but you won’t have to keep this quiet for long. Saurfang is moving.”

Mhorduna nodded. “Your Majesty, Master Shaw—we helped Crowley, and we don’t hate the Horde, but we are Alliance first.”

The spymaster said dryly, “If I doubted that, we wouldn’t be talking.” He sat back in his chair, which Mhorduna took to mean the interview was over. As he got to his feet, however, Shaw said, “Purely for my own curiosity—why did you help the blood elf? I find it hard to believe you broke into the Orgrimmar prison out of gratitude for having helped your man Fallwater at the Faire.”

Mhorduna didn’t manage to muster any surprise that Shaw knew about that as well. “Partly because Crowley is my brother. The kaldorei and the sin’dorei parted ways long ago, but the Illidari couldn’t afford to care about such things.” That idealised the situation a bit, in truth, but he had operated in mixed units often enough.

“Partly,” said Shaw.

“The rest of that story is not mine to tell. But I can say that love is a strange thing.” Greymane made a quiet noise of surprise and understanding; Shaw only nodded.

“That would explain some rumours from Dalaran, I suppose,” he said.

Mhorduna heaved a sigh. 

* * *

They camped a few hours away from Razor Hill, where they planned to stay until the last of the troops they were expecting showed up. No one had very much in the way of firewood, not in the dusty red expanse of Durotar, but at least they didn’t have to worry about tents leaking; Crowley thought that the last time it had rained here was within living memory, but he wasn’t certain.

Not long after dark, he grew too restless to sit in his tent. The rest of the guild had been surprisingly glad to have him back—but also not very happy with him on a personal level, which he had no problem understanding. Both Droxi and Birti had listened to him enough the last several days on the march from Dustwallow through the Barrens and into Durotar, so Crowley went out to the picket line. He’d discovered that Rhion liked to be brushed, and he found it soothing.

The windriders and other meat-eaters were staked out well away from the horses and kodo, just to cut down on the possibility of unfortunate incidents. Rhion, at least, _was_ happy to see him, and he scratched its forehead for a few seconds before settling in with the curry brush. Fur began to drift down immediately; it wouldn’t take long for the ground to change colour. Crowley had yet to work out how one animal could lose so much fur without ending up bald, but Rhion managed.

As he worked, Crowley wondered who Anduin-King might be bringing. Was it too much to hope that there would be someone from the Them? If so, would there be a way to have a message discreetly passed on? He’d naturally begun to think of things he should have said in the note he left the very moment he was too far away to conveniently turn back.

He was about halfway through the job when Rhion looked off into the dark and whined softly. It didn’t seem anxious so much as excited about something, though Crowley couldn’t figure out what. The windrider eeled out from under his hands, like a cat that didn’t want to be petted, and shuffled to the very limits of its rope. Crowley considered for a moment before deciding that he wanted to find out exactly what was going on.

Rhion refused to back up enough to take the strain off its rope, but Crowley unpicked the knot at last. As soon as the resistance let go, Rhion set out. Crowley trailed it, holding onto the rope in an attempt to pretend he was in charge. He’d had the foresight to bring a glaive at least, and while things might get awkward if they hit the sentry line, so far Rhion seemed to be interested in something _in_ camp.

People looked up from their campfires in surprise as Rhion and Crowley went past, which was fine, and then the windrider stopped, turned its head, and barreled straight into the nearest campsite, which wasn’t—especially since the alarmed exclamations were all in Common. Crowley really, really didn’t want to cause a diplomatic incident here. At least he’d be able to explain himself without having to wait for an interpreter.

He realised a moment too late that Rhion was gathering itself for an actual leap, and lost his grip on the rope as the windrider launched itself at someone Crowley didn’t get a good look at before they were buried under shaggy fur and leathery wings. Curses ran through his head as he lunged, in the faint hope of pulling the animal off its prey before they were seriously hurt. He got a hand on Rhion’s collar and yanked it to the side, enough that the prospective victim might have some chance of squirming away, and was opening his mouth to say something—he wasn’t sure what, an apology maybe—when the windrider’s head cleared his line of sight.

* * *

The Them arrived at the rendezvous in Dustwallow Marsh late in the afternoon, to be told that they were among the first of the Alliance to get there and hadn’t really been expected till the next day at the earliest. But they were assigned a campsite area and began settling in. Ezra watched the communal tent go up and entertained wistful thoughts of real beds, and not only because he’d like to have Crowley in one with him. By dark they’d finished set-up, as much of it as they cared to do when they were going to have to strike camp again in a few days at most.

After the evening meal, Ezra helped with the washing-up and settled down by the fire, but the charm of staring into the flames palled quickly. Though as a rule he enjoyed the company of his guildmates, tonight he felt the need to be alone. He stood and made his excuses, and was halfway to the tent when a vast soft weight hit him from behind.

He groped for his scattered wits and recovered them to find that he was on the ground, with something large standing over him and...licking his hair. Enthusiastically. From the sound of things, his guildmates were preparing to attack whatever it was, which Ezra thought was an overreaction—if a completely warranted one—and he tried to push himself up. Then the animal swayed to the side as if it had been pushed, and Mhorduna’s voice rose over the babble. Ezra couldn’t speak Eredun, had in fact deliberately never learnt it, but he recognised its rasp.

“Are you alright, my dear?” asked Mhorduna, more softly and in Common. Ezra was drawing breath to answer when another voice spoke and he froze.

“This was _not_ my idea,” said Crowley, in Common as well, though he sounded rather strangled and he was playing up his accent. “I thought he was stalking something dangerous. I apologise for the alarm.”

Ezra flailed, caught the hand Mhorduna offered, and scrambled to his feet. He turned to face Crowley and discovered that ‘he’ was Rhion, trying to look as if he were staying at Crowley’s side while also edging in Ezra’s direction. Crowley shook the windrider’s collar and snapped, “Stop it! You’ve caused enough trouble already.” Rhion subsided.

“I’m quite alright, no harm done. Only a bit startled.” Ezra had to hope that his breathlessness would support the claim.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” said Crowley, softly. _Too_ softly, but Ezra couldn’t muster sufficient caution to care; Crowley was here, and safe, and so _close,_ and Ezra didn’t notice until Mhorduna’s grip on his arm tightened that he’d attempted to go to Crowley. Which of course he couldn’t possibly do, not with the small-but-growing crowd of people who weren’t his guildmates. He clutched Crowley’s necklace instead.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on?” said a strident voice from the direction of the pathway. Ezra turned to find a goblin man standing just outside the Them’s notional border, anxious and trying to hide it.

“He wants to know what happened,” he said quietly for Mhorduna’s sake.

Mhorduna nodded and said, “Translate for me. No one is hurt. The sin’dora’s mount took an interest in one of my people, but everything is under control now.”

“I’ll take him back to the picket line,” said Crowley. “Again, I apologise.” The goblin advanced into the camp, saying something that Ezra completely failed to listen to because Crowley was going away. Mhorduna had to say his name twice to get his attention, and by the time he could look again Crowley had gotten out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Genn hates Sylvanas** : Sylvanas was ordered to conquer Gilneas by the then-Warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream. Over the course of the attack, the worgen curse was released and infected almost all of the Gilnean people, large parts of the country were rendered uninhabitable, and Sylvanas attempted to kill Genn himself with an arrow that was intercepted by his son Liam; the surviving Gilneans had to flee as refugees to the night elven city of Darnassus...which was in Teldrassil. Basically, Sylvanas and the Forsaken have destroyed Genn's home _twice_ , and she personally killed his son.
> 
>  **Kodo** : Large riding/pack animal, lives in herds, omnivorous, has horns and lizard-y skin.


	48. Chapter 48

Crowley took Rhion to the picket line and tethered it, went back to his tent, and sat down with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He had just enough room for that; the tent was only waist-high on him. He didn’t mind mostly because it meant he didn’t have to share it with anyone.

He sat while it got later and the sounds of the camp quieted around him, until all that was left were occasional footsteps and the far-away sound of a bunch of Pandaren singing. Crowley couldn’t understand the words but from the rhythm and general shoutiness he suspected most of the songs were about drinking. Eventually that stopped too, and that was when he couldn’t stand it any more.

He didn’t try to sneak. Walking normally would be noted and forgotten; being spotted while sneaking would get him stopped and questioned. The Them’s camp wasn’t a long walk, but when he got near it he was faced with another problem: they were all in large multi-person tents. He stood in the path trying to work out how to find Ezra and get his attention without alerting anyone else. Not that he couldn’t look through canvas, but he was unlikely to be able to recognise a silhouette unless he got very lucky with angles.

Something shoved him in the back of the knee and he staggered, reaching reflexively for the glaives he wasn’t carrying. “Calm down, little secret,” said a shadow, as it shimmered into Siegrunë. The thing that had pushed him turned out to be her wolf, its tongue hanging out in a canine grin. Crowley sagged. Just as well he hadn’t had a weapon easily to hand; it would have been extremely awkward to have stabbed Ezra’s guildmate’s wolf. “He’s in that one, first on the right.” The tent she’d indicated looked large enough to have internal subdivisions.

Crowley hesitated, and Siegrunë huffed. “Get going or get gone, you can’t stand out here.”

He nodded, and went. The tent flap wasn’t tied, and inside it sounded mostly like people sleeping, but Mhorduna’s voice drifted from one side of the tiny canvas hallway and Crowley shoved more canvas aside.

Mhorduna and Ezra sat on the heap of cushions and blankets that covered most of the floor of the small chamber. Ezra’s hands worried at each other and Mhorduna was holding him by the arm, and Crowley wondered fleetingly if this were the sort of thing a human would get jealous over. As it was he had to shove down a stab of resentment that Mhorduna got to sleep within arm’s reach of Ezra and he _didn’t_.

“Crowley!” said Ezra, a bit too loud, and clapped a hand over his own mouth.

“You couldn’t have waited another half hour for the guard shift to change? In the morning I’ll have to tell Dush he won the betting pool.” Of course, of _course_ they had a blasted betting pool, but to properly express his opinion of that Crowley would have had to look away from Ezra. Mhorduna went on, “I’ll go out for a few minutes, but I am going to need some sleep.” Crowley nodded, and Mhorduna got to his feet.

Crowley managed to restrain himself until Mhorduna had left the ‘room’, but that turned out to be the exact limit of what he could take; as soon as they were alone Crowley stepped forward, dropped to his knees, and took Ezra’s hands. “Saurfang sent for me, I had to,” he said.

Ezra withdrew one hand and set it gently on the side of his face; Crowley restrained the urge to turn into it. “We knew it would happen eventually, my sun. But I admit, I’ve missed you horribly.”

“Yeah, I—I can’t stay long, I just needed.” That wasn’t a complete sentence, but words were being difficult.

“Come _here_ ,” said Ezra, and Crowley went, though he couldn’t quite squelch the uncomfortable awareness that some unknown number of the Them were within a few spans and at least two of them were awake.

“A betting pool. They had a betting pool?” he asked, a few minutes later.

“Of course they did,” said Ezra, in the tone he used when indulging someone’s foibles. “Most of them were betting on when you would arrive, but I’m told Drumii put their money on me knocking out Mhorduna and going in search of you.”

Crowley stifled a burst of surprised laughter by main force and said, “I wouldn’t recommend you try.” He couldn’t say he liked being so predictable—but he also couldn’t deny he _was_ , on this subject at least. “Shudder to think what else they might be betting on.” Possibilities thronged, each more appalling than the last.

“If there’s anything else, no one told me.”

“Well, they wouldn’t, would they?”

“I suppose not. But my dear, are you alright?”

“Except for finding out my windrider likes you more than he does me. Haven’t even had to fight off any Forsaken assassins, not that Saurfang needs my help with that.”

“Oh, Rhion just likes to cuddle. He mussed my hair terribly." Ezra sighed and tried fruitlessly to get closer to Crowley, as if that were possible. “I wish you could stay. I want to fall asleep with you.”

“I shouldn’t sleep here,” said Crowley. “I think we’re waiting through tomorrow—today by this time, and then we’re going. Two days, maybe three, and it’ll all be over but the shouting.”

Ezra nodded and said, “You can’t let the sun come up on you here. Mind how you go, my dear.”

“Don’t worry about me, priest.”

“As you wish.”

“You’re not helping.” Crowley freed himself—without any help from Ezra, but without any hindrance either—and got to his feet. “I’m not going to risk it tomorrow night.”

“That’s sensible.” Ezra didn’t sound happy about it, which made two of them.

“Get some sleep,” said Crowley.

Ezra sighed. “I’ll try.”

* * *

Early in the morning, news got around that there had been another inter-faction incident, some blood elf’s mount deciding it wanted a tussle with a bluecoat—a human, anyway; mildly insulting nicknames weren’t really in the spirit of unity they were trying to invoke. There hadn’t been any complaint from the human or their guild, but in the interests of harmony Zekhan went in search to make sure the person wasn’t hurt. One of the Nightborne went with him, to act as translator.

They found the right camp with little difficulty and stood on the edge of its territory until they were noticed, by an Illidari night elf who stood from a seat near the cooking fire and came over. Zekhan inclined his head in greeting and said, “I am Zekhan, son of Hekazi. We be hearin’ that one of your people was attacked. Saurfang sent me, makin’ sure you have no complaint.” The Nightborne translated. Zekhan had no idea where she’d learned Common; her people hadn’t exactly been mingling with humans from inside their magical shield for all those years.

The night elf said, “He wasn’t attacked, but we thank the High Overlord for his concern.”

“I guess stories change,” Zekhan said. “We hear, a windrider went across half the camp. They be good to ride but—sharp teeth.”

“Come in, sit, you can talk to him,” the night elf said. Zekhan and the Nightborne followed him. A human man crouched near the fire, poking a pot with a spoon, seemed like the most likely candidate for the person the windrider went for, but true to the night elf’s word he looked entirely unharmed, if a bit tired. “Ezra, stop bothering the porridge, you’re going to ruin it.”

Ezra, apparently, glanced at the elf and kept poking. “It needs to be stirred, my deer, or it will scorch.” Zekhan was just opening his mouth to ask the translator what _that_ meant when the human turned to look at her and said in Orcish, “No, not _deer_ the animal, _dear_ as in what you call someone you’re fond of.” The movement made a pendant necklace slip out of the collar of his shirt.

The Nightborne blinked in surprise. So did Zekhan. “You are a...one who studies,” he said.

“Scholar?” Ezra said.

“Scholar, yeah. That makes this easier. You not be lookin’ like anything bad happened.” That necklace looked very familiar, but Zekhan couldn’t quite put an arrow into why.

“Why should anything bad have happened?”

The night elf shifted his shoulders and said, “The windrider, Ezra.”

“Oh! Oh, of course. No, the poor beast just wanted to play. I was never in any danger. I wouldn’t like to think anything was going to happen to him.”

“Mon, if you don' be wanting anything to happen, nothing gonna happen,” Zekhan said. “Just, all you Alliance be here to help us, even if it helps you too. Would make us pretty unthankful, if we let you get hurt.” The Alliance would benefit from having Sylvanas removed, but that didn’t mean their king had needed to send troops, much less come himself. Behind him, near the camp’s entrance, a discussion started.

“Well, that’s settled then.” Ezra paused for a moment before going on—in Zandali, and Zekhan blinked at him again. “Thank you for coming to ask, and may the loa look upon you with favor.” The man even put his hand on his heart to avert the attention of the less-comfortable loa. Zekhan did not much _want_ Bwonsamdi looking upon him, with favor or in any other way.

Zekhan recovered in time to say, “We all gonna need that.” Then he realized what he was hearing and twisted where he sat to look—the words at the entrance were in Common, but Zekhan had spent more than a week out in the middle of nowhere with Crowley; he knew the man’s voice. He stood up as the elf came to the campfire, (probably) staring at him. “Ey, good to see you,” he said. Zekhan wasn’t necessarily fond of Illidari, but Crowley had stood with Saurfang against Sylvanas’ lackeys and he was willing to forgive a _lot_ for that.

Crowley shifted his weight, more uncomfortable than Zekhan had ever seen him, and said a few words in his native language before remembering himself and switching to Orcish. “Sorry. Yeah, you too. Uh, why…?”

“This be the one the windrider went after yesterday,” Zekhan said. “Came to make sure there weren’t any problems.”

Crowley’s hand went to his own throat, a gesture Zekhan had seen him make probably a hundred times—except the necklace he’d fidgeted with all the way across the Swamp of Sorrows didn’t hang there, and after a moment he started playing with a ring on his other hand instead.

Understanding hit so hard Zekhan almost missed the reply. “That’s why I’m here too. The windrider was mine.”

“It’s very considerate of you,” Ezra said. “Of both of you, I mean.”

The night elf coughed and said something, probably a request for translation because Ezra’s reply sounded apologetic. Zekhan, meanwhile, tried to keep his incredulity from spreading all over his face; he’d known Crowley had someone he cared for, but a human? How had that even happened?

More members of the guild were emerging from their tents, which was a damned good thing because Zekhan needed an excuse to get out of earshot before he started laughing. “I should go, all of you need to have your breakfast. I’ll talk to the boss, tell him it’s all good,” he said.

“Thank you again,” Ezra said. He stood up, his spoon forgotten, and the night elf got to his feet as well.

On impulse, Zekhan said, “Saurfang be havin’ a skald tonight. You speak the language, you could come listen. As my guest.”

The human actually clapped his hands. “That would be delightful! I’ve never had the pleasure and I’m told the sagas are excellent. I will certainly come.” But then his shoulders drooped, and he spoke briefly to the night elf, and translated the reply.

“I can’t let Ezra go out alone.” Ezra sounded as if he didn’t agree with that sentiment. “But if you can guarantee he’ll be protected, in the spirit of cooperation it’s fine with me.”

Zekhan put his hand over his heart and said, “My word on it, mon. You can come too if you like, but it be borin’ to not understand it I think.” He wondered what the night elf—he had to be the guildmaster—was afraid might happen and decided to ask Crowley when he got a chance.

“I’d be happy to, uh, that is, I could provide an escort?” Crowley said. “As an apology for Rhion, I mean.” Zekhan barely succeeded in not rolling his eyes; clearly no one had bothered to teach Illidari _subtlety_.

“Good idea,” he said out loud. “If it be alright with you?”

The night elf nodded. “I can trust my brother.”

They spent a moment arranging times and saying farewells before the Horde party departed, Zekhan wondering the whole time whether Crowley thought he and his human were doing a good job of hiding. Though to be entirely fair, to someone who didn’t know about the necklace it might have just looked odd, rather than obvious.

They left the Alliance guild’s campsite and the Nightborne nodded in farewell. Crowley began to turn away as well and Zekhan said hastily, “Come with me for a minute, ey?”

Crowley’s face went blank, but he nodded and they set off. “That human, he’s got your necklace,” Zekhan said, too softly to be overheard.

There was a pause of several paces. “He gave it to me,” Crowley said at last. “I don’t—it isn’t—”

“Look, mon, you been givin' him anything the Alliance could use? In the war, I mean.”

“Of course not!” Crowley said, indignant.

Zekhan shrugged and said, “Then I don’t see why I should care.”

A few more steps passed. “Thanks,” Crowley said.

“You buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.”

* * *

When she saw Alicia waiting at the Them’s usual meeting place at the docks, Makavi stepped off the pier, letting her seal-skin roll over her as she went. She’d been making a point of avoiding her supposedly-former guildmates in as ostentatious a manner as possible.

She swam under the piers for a minute or so before vaulting out of the water and flashing to raven-form at the peak of her leap. It was pure showing off, but also fun. She circled, taking in the roofs of Boralus, and eventually landed in front of her current favourite post-mission tavern.

She hadn’t been drinking long when Michael appeared across her table. Makavi waved at a seat, and Michael took it. They’d developed a bit of a routine; Maka even enjoyed it. Michael could be an entertaining drinking buddy, and tipsy rambling occasionally led to her dropping a nugget of information. Frustratingly, though, there hadn’t been anything yet that Mhorduna had been able to use, and Maka missed the Them more every day. The Archangels weren’t close-knit; they couldn’t be, with the amount of turnover in membership.

About halfway through her first drink, Michael said idly, “Your old guild hasn’t been around much lately.”

Makavi winced. They’d left her a message in the Dreamgrove that almost everyone would be out of touch, but Mhorduna hadn’t said why, on the theory that what she didn’t know at all she couldn’t know _too much_ about. The reasoning was sound, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. “No surprise there,” she replied, trying to infuse her voice with scorn. “The war’s going well, and they’re good at hiding when they get the chance to.”

Michael shrugged and said, “They do hide pretty well, even from the rest of the Alliance. Fallwater’s back in active rotation lately, but there were weeks there where no one had any idea where he’d got to.”

Maka felt a thrill of anticipation. Michael was finally digging into the Them’s secrets in a way that would be actionable—perhaps for her, but much more likely for Hastur. “He and Ezra kept falling in and out,” she said. _He_ , with no other identifier, always meant Mhorduna. “When they were in—” She tried valiantly not to laugh at her own unintentional double meaning, and mostly succeeded. “—it’d be off for some _quality time_ and of course someone had to keep the baby company when Mhorduna absolutely had to go attend to something alone.” She looked up, caught the bartender’s eye, and gestured for another round.

“Well, I guess I lost that bet,” said Michael, sounding amused. “I had money on you stashing him out in the woods somewhere, but not if the idea was ‘quality time’. I’m impressed.”

“Impressed about what? Making the rest of the guild work harder to cover for his pet?” She’d been gradually decreasing the affection with which she spoke of Ezra.

“That they’re that sneaky. The only one who looks like he might have the slightest clue about how to manage that is the gnome, the rogue, what’s his name?”

“Gnoklu Lockspring,” said Maka. Their fresh drinks arrived. “Sneaky. I guess you can call it sneaky, but it clips my ears that he used what _I_ gave him to do it.”

“When _I_ can’t find someone, yes, I call it sneaky. But what do you mean, what you gave him?”

Makavi shrugged. “I mean I gave it to him, to the guild, and he’s using it as a love nest.” Michael opened her mouth to ask and before she could Maka took the plunge. “I did a lot of work on Draenor, when the Iron Horde was a going concern. Ended up in charge of a garrison somehow.”

Michael looked surprised, which was a rare bird indeed in Maka’s experience. “Draenor. I guess that would explain it.”

“Why do you care about Ezra anyway? I suppose he’s decent looking if you like humans, but you’re not his type.” It gave her some slightly malicious amusement to remind Michael that Ezra preferred to bed men. Humans, at least the majority of them, had perplexing ideas about that.

Michael snorted laughter and said, “He’s not my type either. I prefer someone who can hold his own in a fight. If he weren’t Illidari, honestly, your guildmaster is much more like it.”

“Last I checked, my guildmaster was human. And Mhorduna’s not on the market right now.”

“Former guildmaster, sorry,” said Michael. Maka waved it off. “Do you think Fallwater’s his _love_?”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as he acts like he is.”

There was a pause while Michael studied her face; Makavi took a sip of her drink and gazed back. “Mhorduna’s yours, though.”

“I know mine,” Makavi snapped. “I’ve told you that more than once.”

Michael held up her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry.”

Maka picked up her drink, finished it, and rolled her neck. “I’ve got a boat to catch first thing in the morning, and some Horde to keep away from the azerite. So I think I’d better call it an early night.”

“Fair enough,” said Michael. “I’m going to stay here a bit, I think. See you when you’re back.”

Out on the street, Maka walked for a few minutes, slipped into a blind alley, and performed the brief ritual that would take her to the Emerald Dreamway, and beyond it the Dreamgrove. She wore her cat-skin to cross the ever-green grass, the better to fade from casual sight as she loped towards the portal.

In the Dreamgrove itself, another druid waited. His form was closer to a heap of sticks than an actual cat, but they stayed a few spans apart anyway to avoid accidental transference of scents. “I told her about the garrison,” said Maka. “Tell them to be on the lookout.” He nodded acknowledgement and stepped aside to give her room to pass him.

Makavi headed further into the Grove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Zekhan:** When a Horde player does the Saurfang escape plotline, about halfway through they're met by Zekhan, a young troll shaman who admires Saurfang and has been helping him. He gives them a choice, to help Saurfang or not. If not, they go report to Sylvanas; if they do, they cross the Swamp of Sorrows with Zekhan to the place where Saurfang has gone to ground. There's a [cinematic of Zekhan and Saurfang meeting](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aW_h0qf9vpA), if that's your jam.
> 
>  **The Emerald Dreamway and the Dreamgrove:** The Emerald Dreamway is a transit junction that only druids can access, with portals to a half-dozen places scattered around the world. One of these is the Dreamgrove in the Broken Isles, which was the druid "class hall" during Legion, pretty much a place for druids to hang out and do cool druid stuff.


	49. Chapter 49

As they walked back towards the human’s camp in the late afternoon, Zekhan said, “Your priest, his people be knowin’ about you two?”

A grimace flashed over Crowley’s face. “They do, but at the moment...do you know Hastur of the Fallen? He’s Forsaken.”

“Nah. Should I?”

“Not if you like all your body parts where they are,” said Crowley, in tones of deep disgust. “He’ll be in Orgrimmar right now, cheering Sylvanas on.” Zekhan felt the urge to spit at the name, and resisted only because they were passing an Alliance campsite and he didn’t want to be misinterpreted. “Ezra and I between us killed Hastur’s friend Ligur, who was just as delightful to know, and Hastur’s holding a grudge.”

“Ah,” said Zekhan, feeling profoundly unenlightened.

“He’s been attacking Ezra’s guild, and we think someone in the Alliance is helping him do it.” Zekhan stopped short, staring, and Crowley shrugged. “We have no proof, and it’s not as if I can take it to the Warchief. Even if I weren’t outlaw, even if she gave me a hearing, it would be my word against Hastur’s because she’d never listen to a human. So the Them is working on it from the Alliance side, and as part of that one of them staged a fight with Mhorduna over his supposed relationship with Ezra.”

“You be jokin’,” said Zekhan. Crowley shrugged. After a moment Zekhan started walking again. “Your life be too complicated, mon.”

* * *

By the time Crowley and Zekhan arrived, Ezra had changed his clothing three times. He only had two pairs of trousers and two shirts with him, but deciding _which_ trousers and shirt seemed terribly difficult. It was why he had all of his clothes made in a restricted range of colours—though not, it had to be said, quite as restricted as Crowley preferred. Ezra had never seen him voluntarily wear anything that wasn’t black, dark grey, or crimson, and was fairly certain that some of the greys had started life black and then faded.

Finally he settled on an outfit, which left him little to do other than jitter in increasing anticipation. The opportunity to see a _real, live_ performance of one of the sagas thrilled him; there was next to no information about the art in Common, and Orcish scholarship bent much more towards analysing strategy than poetry. And if that weren’t enough, he’d be in Crowley’s company for several hours at least!

Ezra could tell by now when Mhorduna was being tolerant, which would have set him on edge except that he’d learnt that for Mhorduna, tolerance took quite some time to shade into exasperation. So he flitted back and forth between the tent and the banked fire, unable to settle anywhere for more than a few minutes at a time. As the rendezvous time approached he cycled faster. He’d thoroughly lost count of his number of trips when Mhorduna appeared at his side. “Take your staff,” said Mhorduna, holding it out.

“I won’t be alone,” Ezra protested. “Crowley and Zekhan will be with me, in a crowd, and it’s not as if we’re going out of camp. Hastur can’t possibly find me, he doesn’t even know we’re here.” They’d been careful, upon leaving Boralus, to give the impression the Them had been dispatched to the front again.

Mhorduna sighed. “Sylvanas does, and an assassin doesn’t have to recognise you personally, doesn’t even have to know you’re a priest. You’re clearly a spellcaster. Spellcasters are good targets. It’s not likely, but just in case you don’t want to be easy prey.”

Ezra bit his lip. **Let them try** , said the shadows lazily. **We’ll handle it if they do**. “In that case, not my staff,” he said. “I’ll just fetch my book and dagger.”

“I thought you might say that,” said Mhorduna, and with the other hand offered the neat little carrying case that held the items in question.

“Thank you,” said Ezra, trying not to sound disgruntled at being so predictable. He took the case. “Much rather be able to fight, if fighting is called for.” It wouldn’t be, but if being prepared would make Mhorduna—and, not incidentally, Crowley—feel better about the expedition, he could manage.

As he fastened the case to his belt, Ezra deliberately shoved aside his pique. “I just can’t wait,” he said. “It’s going to be marvelous, I’m sure.”

“Just remember tomorrow’s an early day.” Mhorduna glanced over Ezra’s shoulder and bent to pull him into a quick embrace. Despite the similarity in height it was nothing at all like hugging Crowley, Mhorduna being so much broader. “Your bodyguards are here,” Mhorduna murmured.

* * *

As he and Zekhan approached the Them’s camp, Crowley was pleased—and more than slightly surprised—to see Ezra clipping his book and dagger to his belt. Since Mhorduna was standing there holding the staff as well, Crowley suspected his influence. Ezra wasn’t wearing his robes or other gear, but Crowley supposed he couldn’t have everything.

Less pleasant was watching Mhorduna noting their arrival and enfolding Ezra in his arms, for all that Crowley was quite aware that it was for Zekhan’s benefit; Mhorduna didn’t know Zekhan knew about Crowley’s relationship to Ezra and the shaman was right, his life was too blasted complicated. Despite himself a quiet, unhappy hiss escaped him, and Zekhan gave him a glance. “It be a good show,” he said. “But we be goin’ to a better one.”

They collected Ezra, all but vibrating with excitement, and set off. Ezra and Zekhan carried on a conversation about the impending performance—the troll was something of a connoisseur—but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to join in. Walking beside Ezra, pretending to be a bodyguard and nothing else, pretending to not know him, was just as awful now as it had ever been in the streets of Dalaran, and Crowley didn’t have Ezra’s ability to lose himself in minutiae.

Saurfang’s campsite, large though it was to facilitate its service as the coordination centre for the Horde side of this venture, was crowded enough to be slightly uncomfortable. There were Alliance folk other than Ezra scattered through the crowd, though not many; Crowley felt comfortable in assuming that the human man standing near Saurfang was Anduin, King of Stormwind. He was young even by human standards, but from what Crowley could tell he’d proven himself quite able despite it—or was willing to listen to more experienced advisors, which came to much the same thing.

They took up their places, good ones given Zekhan’s position on Saurfang’s ‘staff’, the two of them flanking Ezra. Crowley wanted desperately to at least take Ezra’s arm, but contented himself with slouching a bit so that the backs of their hands could brush.

As the sun vanished below the horizon, the bonfire was lit and the skald took her place. Her chosen piece, _the lay of the dead cities_ , was not one Crowley had heard before, so at least he might be able to concentrate on it well enough to avoid pining too obviously.

* * *

Ezra couldn’t immerse himself in the narrative quite as thoroughly as he’d have liked to, because he found himself groping for Crowley’s hand and of course that wasn’t allowed, standing as they did in the front rank of the crowd with the full light of the fire on both of them, but he enjoyed the experience immensely anyhow. The skald, a statuesque woman with her hair in an elegant topknot, didn’t rely solely on the inherent beauty of the poetry; she infused the words with real feeling. Ezra was not familiar with the war her words described, but he didn’t need to grasp the details of troop movements to feel the impact.

As the performance went on it became obvious why this particular piece had been chosen. The sagas, as Ezra understood them, were at least nominally historical, but characters were often changed or introduced to drive home the point—and the main characters of _the lay of the dead cities_ were warriors from opposite sides of the conflict, whose example had brought their peoples together against a common foe. Very apropos, given the purpose of tonight’s audience.

Both main characters survived the final battle, if barely in one case, and Ezra made no real attempt to stop himself sniffling at their reunion.

It felt as if hardly any time had passed, but when the skald accepted the last cheers and retired, Ezra was startled to realise that the moon was high. He shook himself as the crowd began to fragment and said reluctantly, “I suppose I should be going. We do have to get a wiggle on dreadfully early.”

“Get a _wiggle_ on?” Crowley echoed.

Ezra nodded and resisted the urge to pat Crowley on the arm. Instead he turned to Zekhan and said, “I can’t thank you enough for the invitation, it was splendid.”

“You liked it, we’ll do it again some time. But first, Orgrimmar.”

“First Orgrimmar,” Ezra agreed, thinking, **Orgrimmar, and then Michael, and then Hastur...it’s like telling a child we’ll do it tomorrow. It means never.**

“Looks like Saurfang be wantin’ to talk to me,” said Zekhan. Ezra followed Crowley’s glance in the direction of the High Overlord—who was not looking towards them nor even standing in Zekhan’s line of sight. Crowley’s eyebrows climbed and Ezra could feel his own trying to follow suit. Zekhan grinned. “You be alright to get him back?”

There was a brief pause. “I can manage,” said Crowley.

Zekhan clapped him on the shoulder. “See you in the mornin’, then. Good luck, both of you.”

“Mind how you go,” said Ezra, bemused. It sounded odd in Orcish. Zekhan nodded and turned away.

For a moment Ezra felt as if they were alone, even in the midst of the crowd; no one was paying them any attention. He took half a step forward, but Crowley tensed and common sense reasserted itself. Someone _would_ pay attention if...if he did any of the things he would have liked to do. He clasped his hands and squared his shoulders instead. “I should be going.”

* * *

The fire had gone down, and in its slanting light Ezra looked ethereal and unreal, almost translucent. Crowley just stood there, staring, until Ezra’s fingers twitched against each other and he snapped out of it. “Right. Come on then.” That sounded properly un-familiar, didn’t it?

This time, with no Zekhan, they fell into step immediately. They hadn’t gotten far when Ezra said softly, “Zekhan knows, doesn’t he?”

Crowley took a moment to scan for potential eavesdroppers before replying at the same volume, “He’s not going to cause trouble.”

“But if he worked it out, who else might?” Ezra sounded fretful.

“It’s fine, priest.”

“It’s _not_ fine.” Around him the shadows thickened for a moment, barely visible even to Crowley’s sight but alarming nonetheless.

One of the benefits of the catch-as-catch-can nature of the encampment was the way the outlines of the individual campsites left little sheltered alcoves, out of casual sight. Crowley took another quick look around and stepped to the side into one, drawing Ezra with him. “It’s fine,” he said firmly. “I spent a week crossing a swamp with him, remember. He recognised my necklace.”

“Oh!” Ezra’s hand went to the coin, and the cold weight of his ring on Crowley’s finger seemed to almost burn. “I suppose that’s all right, then. But we can’t—someone could see us.” He didn’t protest when Crowley moved closer.

“No one’s looking for us,” said Crowley. “We can take five minutes.”

Ezra nodded, and sagged forward until his forehead came to rest on Crowley’s breastbone. For a few breaths, neither of them moved.

“Here, take this.” Crowley pulled Ezra’s ring from his finger. “I’ll feel better if you have it.”

Ezra sighed and raised his head. “Only if you take your coin back.” After a moment’s work he offered it in exchange. The small, familiar weight of the necklace was absurdly comforting. When they’d both restored their jewelry to the proper places, Ezra took Crowley’s hands. “My sun. I love you.”

“We’ll be alright, priest. One way or another the hard part’s over tomorrow.” Crowley didn’t try to force a smile; Ezra wouldn’t likely be able to see it anyway.

“One way or another, we’ll both have our hands full,” said Ezra ruefully. “I can’t imagine we’ll be able to speak much from now on. At all, really.”

“Once Sylvanas is dealt with, it won't be as dangerous. I'll be able to talk to Thrall, or whoever takes her place.” He was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be Saurfang, no matter what else happened; Saurfang had a look about him that made Crowley uneasy.

“We still need proof,” said Ezra, the querulous tone creeping back into his voice. “And after that who knows what will happen?”

“We’ll be alright,” Crowley repeated, but he could tell Ezra wasn’t convinced. “I think I’d better not kiss you,” he said, trying for a light tone.

“Better not. And we should go. Anyone could be _lurking_.” He dropped Crowley’s hands and stepped back.

Crowley took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

The rest of the walk was excruciatingly slow and simultaneously over much too quickly; when they arrived at the Them’s camp, Crowley wasn’t surprised to see Mhorduna waiting.

They exchanged nods, and Crowley said, “I suppose we’ll be fighting on the same side again in the morning.”

“I suppose we will. Now Ezra, to bed, you need the rest.”

Ezra nodded, turned in the direction of the tent, stopped, and turned back. “Thank you for escorting me,” he said formally.

“It was my privilege,” Crowley replied.

“Light bless you,” said Ezra, and vanished into the tent.

After a moment Mhorduna said, “Be careful, little brother.”

“ _Little_ ,” said Crowley, in outrage that was only slightly exaggerated for effect. Mhorduna gave him an unrepentant grin and offered his hand, and it would have taken far more offense than that for Crowley to refuse.

“You’re smaller than me,” said Mhorduna.

“We’re the same height!” Crowley had to admit he wasn’t nearly as broad—but he didn’t have to admit it out loud.

Mhorduna shrugged, but his smile faded. “Be careful,” he repeated. “I’ll watch your back if I can.”

“Don’t watch mine, watch his,” said Crowley, too quietly to be heard at any distance. Then, louder, “I should be going. _Shorel’aran._ ”

“Elune light your path,” said Mhorduna.

Back in his tent, Crowley shed his armour and crawled into his blankets. There’d be fighting in the morning; he needed rest. But sleep took a long time to come, because he couldn’t keep ignoring that it wasn’t just Ezra any longer. If Mhorduna died, he’d be losing a brother again.

* * *

The next day, mid-morning, as the vanguard of Saurfang’s army drew near Razor Hill there was a distant boom, and the march stopped until the cause could be investigated. Scouts returned with the news that the ravine system north of the village had been collapsed, deliberately, with the use of azerite charges. It would take days to go around, during which they could be attacked at any time, so they settled back down while the gnomes and goblins put their heads together in search of a solution. It took another day. Crowley, despite great temptation, did not go to the Them’s camp again.

Finally the ravine was cleared enough to make their last march north to the gates of Orgrimmar. Along the way they were harassed by strikes from assassins, mostly Forsaken, and Crowley wondered idly if Hastur were among them; it would hardly be out of character. If so, though, he didn’t show himself. No one was permanently killed, but a few people had to be sent back south to safety.

It was just before midday when the massed ranks of the coalition troops drew up on the dusty plain outside the Horde’s capital city.


	50. Chapter 50

The sun glared down out of a pale sky as they came to a halt. They’d marched in the same kind of haphazard order in which they’d camped, but for their stand they were divided again, Horde and Alliance guilds each arrayed around the core columns of regular troops. Crowley thought that for the defenders on the wall, the banners studded through each faction’s formation must make a blatant contrast, black-on-red and gold-on-blue.

He stood with his guild. He didn’t know whether Saurfang had commissioned him in particular, and rather hoped he hadn’t; Crowley had no desire to be part of the face of this semi-rebellion. Saurfang could lead Illidari, but he couldn’t afford to have it appear that the minions of the Great Betrayer were part of his decision-making process. So only Saurfang, Anduin, and Thrall walked out into the stretch of bare dirt between the front rank of troops and the looming gate.

For several moments, nothing seemed to happen. Not even a breeze stirred the banners. Then Saurfang strode a few steps closer to the wall and called for mak’gora.

The formal duel wasn’t a sin’dorei custom, but it meant a great deal to the orcs and thus to the Horde in general; Crowley doubted that Sylvanas would refuse. If she tried, she’d lose face in the eyes of a majority of her supporters—and besides, she was arrogant enough to assume she’d win, and cruel enough to want to make Saurfang suffer while doing so. Crowley and the other elves muttered explanations to those who couldn’t hear the challenge, and one could almost watch the news spreading by the way people suddenly stood up straighter.

Another long pause, this one stretched tight with tension, and then the gates split open, just wide enough for Sylvanas to emerge from the darkness. The banner-bearer at her shoulder bore the sigil of the Forsaken, rather than the Horde, and all around Crowley people murmured in discontent. Even some of the Alliance seemed not to like it.

Not even an elf’s ears could pick up the brief discussion between Saurfang and Sylvanas, but at the end of it the Warchief turned to her banner-bearer to arm herself. Her blades hovered in the nebulous region between long knife and short sword, still the equipment of the Ranger General she’d been before her death. The mak’gora required the use of equivalent weapons on both sides, and Saurfang wielded neither bow nor magic.

* * *

Ezra naturally knew what mak’gora was, and when Mhorduna asked for a translation of the word he was shocked. “He can’t possibly beat her, he can’t expect to live through it,” he said quietly. “He’s a great warrior but this isn’t his strength.”

“He doesn’t have to live through it to beat her,” Mhorduna replied. Ezra swallowed and nodded. He worried at his ring as inaudible negotiations proceeded. “She’s taken the challenge,” said Mhorduna. “Thrall gave him his axe. And—King Wrynn is giving him _Shalamayne_.”

“What?” Ezra got up on his toes, giving himself just enough height to catch a glimpse of the action. “That was his father’s sword!”

As Saurfang turned to approach Sylvanas, Anduin pacing at his side, a figure burst out of the Horde ranks: Zekhan. A ripple of alarm went through the Alliance formation, but calmed when no one followed him. Thrall stopped the young troll’s career with an outflung arm, and Anduin came to a halt well out of the prospective field of battle, letting Saurfang go on alone. For one more long moment, nothing happened.

Saurfang charged.

The fight was just as one-sided as Ezra had feared, and it sickened him to watch; Sylvanas was just too _fast_ and it took her less than half a minute to knock Saurfang to his hands and knees. She crouched next to him, out of Ezra’s line of sight, and spoke, and she must have been using some magic because Ezra could hear her as clearly as if it were him she addressed. “The High Overlord falls,” she said, cool as water; nothing about it was mocking except the words themselves. Her voice sharpened a bit. “ _I trusted you_ , and so did they.” She stood, and circled him, the way that Crowley would circle; but Crowley did it out of watchfulness and concern, and Sylvanas did it so that Saurfang couldn’t see her. “Death comes, old soldier, and all their hope dies with you.”

Terrible stillness covered the field, and then Saurfang’s voice said, “You cannot kill hope.”

 **No, but you can twist it** , said the shadows, giggling. Ezra felt lightheaded with their glee, and forced himself to focus.

* * *

Crowley held his breath as Saurfang pulled himself painfully to his feet. “You tried, at Teldrassil. You failed. Hope remains,” the orc said. He swung; Sylvanas parried in a clash of steel. “You set us to kill each other at Lordaeron. You _failed_. Here we stand. You—just—keep—failing!” Saurfang punctuated the words with blows; Sylvanas fell back, deflecting each one. “The Horde will endure.” He swung overhand and Sylvanas caught the blade of Shalamayne in the crux of her two knives. “The Horde is strong!” Sylvanas flung him back and he leapt for her again; Crowley was too far away to see exactly what happened except that it ended with Sylvanas bent and raising a hand to her face, and when she spoke everyone on the field could hear it, everyone on the walls.

“The Horde is _nothing!_ ”

No one moved.

Sylvanas straightened, and cried, “You are _all_ nothing!”

Saurfang lunged, and Crowley knew how it would end in the split second before it did. Sylvanas dropped her blades and dark magic burst from her hands even as Saurfang shouted, “ _For Azeroth_!” The blast hit him squarely and knocked him back; he went down in an explosion of dust and didn’t move again.

Zekhan faltered and Crowley felt a pang of sympathy; he hadn’t known Saurfang well, but Zekhan had looked up to the man like a second father. “She just couldn’t resist bringing magic into it,” Celebiriel murmured, and Crowley glanced at her. “Means she lost. Forfeit.” Something in her tone of voice struck him as odd, but there wasn’t time to pursue the thought.

* * *

“If you could see yourselves as I see you,” said Sylvanas, her voice still in everyone’s ear, composed again and thick with scorn. She strode away from the gates, spreading her hands as she went. Even at this distance Ezra could see the magic gathering around them, like smoke—or shadows. “Toy soldiers in tin plate.”

“I wear leather,” someone yelled, and a few people laughed—the kind of laugh that comes from being shocked and appalled as much as from humour—but Ezra doubted Sylvanas heard it.

“Beasts who howl for honour, standing as one.” She began to dissolve, holding her arms wide as if in demonstration. “Savour it. _Nothing lasts_.”

Sylvanas Windrunner, the Banshee Queen, collapsed into a roil of shadows and vanished into the bright sky.

Ezra felt himself stagger. Through the veil of grey that passed over his vision he could see Alicia waver and catch herself on Drumii’s shoulder. **Nothing lasts** , the shadows echoed. **You know that. You knew it from the beginning. He’ll leave us, now that he has _real_ work to do. They’ll all leave us. Because you’re soft. _Weak_.**

* * *

All through the ranks, priests wavered where they stood; Crowley saw a ren’dorei mage among the Alliance troops falter as well, and anxiety stabbed him—but he couldn’t think of anything to do, and stayed where he was.

Whatever magic had carried voices across the field had gone with Sylvanas; they couldn’t hear what if anything was said over Saurfang’s body as it was lifted. But the Forsaken banner-bearer tapped the metal-shod pole into the ground and the gates groaned open again; from the top of the wall the sound was echoed. The banner-bearer stood aside and Thrall and Zekhan and Anduin carried Saurfang into Orgrimmar.

The whole coalition force stood where they were, no one certain what to do now. A few Horde fighters, almost all of them orcs, slung their weapons and headed for the open gates, but most people didn’t appear to be sure enough of their welcome to follow. It seemed unlikely that combat was in the offing, at least, but the Alliance in particular looked unhappy, no doubt at the departure of their king into the very heart of enemy territory. None of them ventured to follow him but it was clear the forbearance was costing them.

Everyone stood there, eyeing each other and the opposite faction uneasily, for a few minutes that dragged like years, until a tauren came hurrying out through the open gate. He started going around to unit commanders and guildmasters, telling them that anyone who wished was free to come into the city. Even the dubious were generally reassured by the fact that a tauren was delivering the message, and the trickle in the direction of Orgrimmar grew to a steady stream. It looked as if a similar message was going to the Alliance; units were drifting away towards land suitable for camping, and a small group followed a goblin towards the gate, presumably to bodyguard the king.

Crowley grabbed Droxi by the shoulder. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes,” he said, and slipped into the crowd before she could protest too much.

* * *

“Ezra,” said someone in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t the first time, and Ezra shook himself. Drumii had pushed their visor up and stood peering at him with an expression of mild concern. “Did you not hear Mhorduna?”

The Them were indeed preparing to move...somewhere. “Oh, yes, of course,” said Ezra, attempting to sound chipper.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Drumii; the metallic echoes of their voice were not the best at carrying emotion but they were clearly not fooled. “What’s wrong, then?”

“Must’ve been the sun.”

Drumii’s reply, which would no doubt have been skeptical in the extreme, was preempted by a familiar voice. “Priest, are you alright?”

Ezra felt it was permissible to be a little startled; he turned to face Crowley while he groped for an answer. “I’m quite well, thank you,” he said after an awkward moment, using Common as Crowley had.

Crowley looked him up and down and his eyebrows went up. “Are you sure?” Ezra glanced around uneasily but no one was paying them any attention, in the bustle of standing down from combat readiness.

“Of course I’m sure,” he replied. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“All the priests,” said Crowley. “All the ren’dorei. She did _something_ to the shadows.” His accent showed more than usual. Ezra thought that a bit of agitation was only natural, given the High Overlord’s fate.

He tried to square his shoulders. “Thank you for your concern, but I assure you I’m quite well.”

Crowley’s hands clenched and relaxed, and it was plain as the nose on his face that he wasn’t any more convinced than Drumii had been, but there wasn’t much either of them could do about it, not out here in full view of half the world. “Alright,” said Crowley, in a voice that meant it wasn’t all right at all. “Got to get back, then. _Shorel’aran_.”

Ezra murmured something that would do for a farewell, though it was no doubt lost under Drumii’s hearty “Watch your back!” The crowd swallowed Crowley’s retreating figure almost at once, but Ezra kept looking after him until a hand landed on his shoulder.

He jumped and whirled, reaching for his dagger, to discover Mhorduna, snatching his hand back out of harm’s way. “It’s just me,” he said, and Ezra sagged.

“I’m so sorry. A tad jittery, I suppose.” He looked around a bit more carefully, to discover Drumii over with the rest of the guild. When had the dwarf moved?

“That’s understandable. Come help find a good spot to camp.”

Ezra nodded.

* * *

Crowley spent the rest of the day and well into the night in Orgrimmar with the rest of the guild, working, a feat he managed by dint of thinking as little as possible and staying the hell out of the Valley of Strength. Sylvanas naturally still had supporters in the city; some of them could be talked around and some of them fled, but some needed to be rounded up. He got to bed very late and a bit battered, in a small room over a tavern that he shared with two of his guildmates who also lacked living quarters of their own here, and got dressed in the morning—much earlier than he’d have liked—expecting more of the same..

But at firstmeal he looked up idly from his plate to see Zekhan approaching—and more to the point, there to fetch him. Fortunately neither Droxi nor Birti were present, but even Rukhbar looked skeptical when Crowley tried to convince his guildmates that they didn’t need to fetch Mirimë; no doubt they would anyway, but that couldn’t be helped.

As they stepped out of the shadow of the tunnel that formed the Drag, Crowley said, “I’m surprised they’re dealing with this today.”

Zekhan shrugged. “Want to get it outta the way, I think.”

Very fortunately, they didn’t need to pass the prison gates to get to Grommash Hold.

The room off the great hall held something of a collection of luminaries: Anduin Wrynn and Thrall, Genn Greymane, Jaina Proudmoore, and Lor’themar Theron, which Crowley rather appreciated. He’d renounced his fealty to the sin’dorei leader to follow Illidan, but Theron’s presence meant that there would be someone who could explain that Crowley wasn’t just being poetic when he talked about Ezra. And Proudmoore meant there’d be someone on Ezra’s side.

“My lords,” he said, and they all acknowledged him politely enough. Moments later, Ezra arrived, with Mhorduna in tow. Or possibly the other way around, as Ezra was already visibly uneasy. The two of them bowed to Anduin, who waved the courtesy away. “There’s no need for that. This is—well. I won’t pretend there aren’t some concerns, but from what King Greymane tells me we’re all interested in the well-being of Azeroth, and in peace. We’ll discuss this small matter so that we can devote our full attention to other things.”

They all took seats. Mhorduna maneuvered himself so that it was natural for him to take the chair between Crowley and Ezra, which Crowley had to admit was probably prudent, but he didn’t have to enjoy it. When they were situated, Thrall put his hands on the table. “First of all, Crowley of the Illidari: you are no longer a fugitive from the Horde.” He spoke in Orcish, and Crowley could just hear Ezra translating for Mhorduna. The two human kings and Lord Admiral Proudmoore, it seemed, had no need for translators. “Saurfang assured me that you helped him against Sylvanas, and as I understand it your attack upon Edward Hastur was deliberately provoked.”

Crowley paused for a moment in surprise. “Yes. He’d kidnapped—how much do you know about me and Ezra, my lords? I don’t want to waste time explaining things you’re already aware of.”

Thrall said, “We know that the two of you have been in contact for nearly a year. Involved for nearly as long. King Greymane is given to understand that you regard each other as mates.” No one seemed surprised at that, as far as Crowley could tell. “What we don’t know is why you’ve chosen loyalty to him above your oaths to the Horde.”

“I have _not_ done that,” said Crowley, more sharply than he had intended. Maybe he should have waited for Mirimë after all, but he supposed they could check with her later. “I’ve never neglected my duty for his sake, and we never told each other anything about the progress of the war—or no, that’s not quite true.” Thrall and Theron both visibly, if subtly, tensed up. “I told him about what happened with Saurfang, so that he could inform his command if they didn’t already know.”

“I see,” said Thrall. “However, a question remains; you were at risk every time the two of you met. Why?”

“Ezra has to answer for himself, but for me…” Crowley shrugged. “He’s my One.”

Theron made a surprised noise, and Thrall, Anduin and Greymane all turned to look at him. “I take it that means something more than I understand,” said Anduin.

“It took me some time to understand it,” said Ezra. “It’s complicated.”

Theron shook his head and said, “It’s very simple. The example with which you are no doubt most familiar is Tyrande and Malfurion. Neither of them will ever love another. They cannot.”

“Their bond is strong, as I suppose it would have to be to have endured so long, but that’s surely hyperbole,” said Anduin. Crowley tried not to make a face. Humans.

Thrall nodded, and Crowley amended his mental complaint to _non-elves_. “I will never love anyone other than my Aggra, but that doesn’t explain why he’s chosen this.”

“It’s not hyperbole, if I correctly understand the word,” said Theron, sounding a bit irritated. “The human’s heart may change—” Crowley bristled, and Theron held up a placating hand. “I mean no offense, only that it can happen. But Crowley’s will not.”

“If I may,” said Proudmoore. Her accent in Orcish sounded a great deal like Ezra’s, if stronger. “I’ve discussed the matter with friends in the Kirin Tor, and from what I can tell it’s exactly as Lord Theron says. It’s forever, and it’s not a matter of choice.”

“Many have wished it were as simple as that,” said Theron dryly. “It happens to all elves.”

“Then why are _you_ consorting with his, er, One?” asked Greymane, with a gesture in Mhorduna’s direction.

Crowley sighed. “In a word, Hastur,” he said, before anything could get complicated. At least if they’d fooled Greymane’s informants, or for that matter _Shaw’s_ , the act was convincing.

“One of my guildmembers is trying to get information about Hastur,” said Mhorduna. “I’m pretending to coddle Ezra, as an excuse for her to be unhappy and leave the Them.”

“It seems that Ezra Fallwater is at the centre of all of this, but he doesn’t speak for himself very much,” said Thrall. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

* * *

Ezra took a deep breath and tried and failed to still his hands. He hesitated for a moment before deciding to speak in Orcish; he wanted to be sure that the Horde had no misunderstandings. Crowley could translate for Mhorduna. “Hastur and his late...friend. Accomplice. Ligur. They fixed on me, I have never known why.” He’d spent so much time trying to imagine what could possibly be _special_ about him, and how he could change it. “They would seek me out in battle, just to kill me. Before I met Crowley they kidnapped me to...to play with my death.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Crowley’s hand tightening on the arm of his chair. “Ligur attacked me at the Darkmoon Faire and Crowley and I killed him, and he stayed dead.” He didn’t feel it was necessary to go into detail on exactly why that had happened. “Hastur found out it was us and ever since he’s been searching for vengeance. Since he can’t reach us, he’s targeting my guild. It’s almost as if he knows where we’ll be.”

“It’s _not_ ‘as if’,” said Crowley. “You know it perfectly well. Someone is passing him information and the only reason I’m not saying who is so that no one’s biased when they look into it for themselves.”

“What do you mean by ‘play with’?” said King Wrynn.

Ezra could feel the blood leaving his face. He should have expected that question. “I think it would be better if I showed you,” he said, and he couldn’t keep his voice from shaking.

“Priest,” said Crowley. Ezra shook his head and stood up.

The silence felt thick in the room as Ezra pulled his tunic over his head, and then his shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that didn’t stop him hearing King Wrynn’s sharp breath, or the Lord Admiral’s soft, “Oh, no.”

“I’m quite sure that if you can find something they wrote, either of them, the handwriting will match,” he said. “I accepted the risk of death when I agreed to fight for Kul Tiras, for the Alliance, but this…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Battle is one thing,” said Thrall heavily. “But there’s no honour in the torment of a prisoner.”

Ezra turned his head in the direction of the sound of movement, which turned out to be Crowley, pressing his shirt back into his hands.

“That’s enough, priest, they’ve seen,” he said softly. “Put this back on.” Ezra clutched the fabric and wished he had leisure to burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ren'dorei:** Void elves. They used to be blood elves; some years after the blood elves renamed themselves, some of them got...pretty much marinated in the shadows and are now a separate race.
> 
> Anduin is a priest like Ezra. We don't know why he gets to wear plate and use a sword; it's apparently _ineffable_.
> 
> Last but not least, if you'd like to watch Saurfang fight Sylvanas, [here you go.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NRLuUnpGYg)


	51. Chapter 51

Discussion stalled for Ezra to put his shirt back on, and then he sat. Crowley took the chair on his left this time, and anyone who didn’t like it was most welcome to very fuck off. As it was he had to restrain the urge to sit in the _same_ chair—the seats were broad enough for a tauren, they’d have both fit—because Ezra was shaking visibly. He settled for holding hands.

“Thank you, my sun,” Ezra murmured. “I just hope it’s not for nothing.”

No one seemed interested in saying anything, and Crowley shifted in his seat. He’d never claimed to be a patient man, even when it wasn’t a matter of literal life and death. “Ligur’s dealt with, and that—” He waved at Ezra. “—is why something needs to be done about Hastur too. I don’t care who the target is.”

“I agree,” said Thrall. “He’ll need to be tried properly—I won’t have it said that the Horde is unjust. There was enough of such things under Sylvanas.”

Crowley tried not to grit his teeth. It was the kind of thing Thrall had to think about.

“I know we’re all interested in better cooperation between the Alliance and the Horde,” said Mhorduna. Crowley let Ezra do the translating. “But there’s cooperation, and then there’s selling one’s own allies to be tortured and murdered. And the kind of vicious that Ligur was, and Hastur is—that doesn’t happen overnight. Ezra can’t be the first person they did this to, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the cooperation has been going on for a long time as well.”

“As far as we’ve been able to tell, the people working with them are doing it for the sake of more fighting,” said Crowley. “If we don’t get proof of who that is, what’s to stop them from finding another Horde contact and going around again?”

Unexpectedly, Ezra said, “We can get proof. Both of what Hastur has been trying to do, and of who’s giving him information.”

“It sounds to me as if you have a plan.” From Greymane’s tone he wasn’t happy about it.

“It’s very likely that Hastur knows, or will soon know, where we’ve been keeping our guildmates to recover from his attacks. If so, I expect him to attack us there,” said Mhorduna.

“I can’t allow a member of the Horde to be subject to Alliance justice,” said Thrall.

“Now that this is out in the open, it’ll be easier to turn him over to you,” said Mhorduna. To Crowley’s ear he sounded a little irked. “We’ve been doing it alone because we thought we had to, not because we want to cause an interfactional incident.”

“This isn’t out in the open, and I suggest that it not become so,” said Greymane.

“Master Shaw would never forgive any of us,” Anduin agreed, though with a thread of humour in his tone that Greymane had entirely lacked.

Mhorduna said, “Regardless, I think it’s too late to stop it. The information is out where Hastur can get it, and after yesterday’s events there will be little holding him here. If we’re right about who he’s working with, he’ll come. For Ezra, and for Crowley if he’s in range.”

“If you think you can stop me _being in range_ , you have another think coming.”

“I didn’t intend to try,” said Mhorduna mildly.

“I don’t like it,” Greymane declared.

“I don’t think any of us do,” said Anduin. “But if the guildmaster is correct, we would be fools not to take the opportunity. Let’s say ten days. If Hastur hasn’t moved by then, we’ll assume our surmise about his accomplices was wrong.” Crowley’s lips twitched at that diplomatic ‘our’.

“Wouldn’t count on more than four days, once he hears about it,” he said aloud. “He’s well-connected, and for this he’ll call in every favour he has. Especially now.” People nodded and made noises of agreement and (in Greymane’s case) resignation, and Crowley let that settle down before he went on. “And this is all great, but it doesn’t answer a very important question. Do I get to stop all this bloody sneaking about, or do a whole lot more of it?”

The three Alliance leaders held a brief consultation that took place entirely in facial expressions—or, at least, so Crowley assumed, since none of them spoke. Finally Anduin said, “We can only make that decision for one of you. Ezra Fallwater of the Them, do we have your word that you won’t share information that could affect the Alliance?”

“Yes, your majesty, of course,” said Ezra. To Crowley’s mild relief he didn’t start down the forest path of special cases and possible exceptions, which was always a risk when he was nervous.

“Then it isn’t really any of our business, is it?” When Anduin went on, his tone was noticeably warmer. “And personally, I’m happy for you. Light bless you both.” Neither Greymane nor the Lord Admiral disagreed, so Crowley reckoned that was the bluecoats sorted.

Unexpectedly, Thrall laughed, just a short bark. “And we have already had Crowley’s word on it. See to it you keep it that way.”

“Planning to,” Crowley replied.

Thrall turned his attention to Theron, who shook his head. “Trying to stand between them wouldn’t end well. It never does.”

“Well,” said Thrall. “I agree with King Greymane that this should be kept discreet, but you can probably dispense with _sneaking about_.”

Relief hit like a sandbag, and Crowley felt tension go out of his shoulders he hadn’t even realised was there. He felt a bit foolish about it; Thrall wasn’t Sylvanas, and had clearly known the broad outline of the situation before he’d even walked into the Hold.

“If that’s all, I should be going,” said Mhorduna. “We still have things to prepare for when Hastur shows up.”

"Of course," said Anduin briskly. "I'm glad that we could discuss this and put our concerns to rest."

Everyone stood. Crowley hovered where he was, torn between going to find Mirimë before she could work herself into apoplexy and spending an extra few moments in Ezra’s presence.

“I beg your pardon.” Crowley turned to discover Lord Admiral Proudmoore at his shoulder. She was quite tall for a human, especially a human woman, and hardly had to look up. “Could I have a closer look at your necklace?” Crowley’s hand went to it, to discover that it was wrong side out again; he hadn’t worked out how to stop it doing that. He hesitated.

“Just for a moment,” she said.

Crowley unfastened the clasp slowly, and found himself reluctant to let go of the chain. Proudmoore examined both sides of the coin and it occurred to him once again that he still didn’t know what it said; the Common lessons hadn’t made it to writing, and he never remembered to ask.

She stood silent with the coin in her hand for a few moments before offering it back. Crowley managed to not actively snatch it from her grip. “May this bring you more luck than it did me, Illidari,” said Proudmoore, and turned away before he’d quite managed to work up a response. She met Thrall at the door; the orc put a comradely hand on her shoulder as they left the room.

That left only Mhorduna, Ezra, and Crowley himself. Mhorduna said, “We do need to be going, but take a moment.”

Ezra nodded. He left Mhorduna’s side and at the last moment visibly stopped himself from putting his arms around Crowley—which stung a bit, but was probably sensible. Instead he laid one hand flat in the centre of Crowley’s chest. “I’ll see you soon, my dear, I hope.”

Crowley covered Ezra’s hand with his own and said, “This is another moment I shouldn’t kiss you, I suppose.”

Ezra tilted his head in his familiar way. “I fear you’re right, but…” He went up his toes and dropped a swift kiss on Crowley’s cheek. “That’s for the shirt. You should wait a moment after we leave.”

“Watch your back, priest,” said Crowley.

A minute later he stepped out of the main door of the Hold and was immediately accosted by Mirimë, Droxi and Birti; all three of them were some combination of worried and curious, though the exact proportions differed. He gave them the short version, pretty much that he wasn’t destined for another cell (He could _feel_ the prison entrance at his back, not five hundred spans away.) because he needed to sit Mirimë down and tell her about Ezra but the middle of the Valley of Strength wasn’t the place for it.

* * *

In the Valley of Spirits, the Fallen debated next moves.

Baelsebë had managed to get the guild’s official stance to nearly everyone in time, and of the few exceptions only two hadn’t worked out that the path to survival right now included loud declarations of hatred for the Banshee Queen. Honest opinions were for privacy, and maybe the dark looks they exchanged over beer mugs.

Not that any of them would have objected to bringing the Alliance’s High King into Orgrimmar—if he’d been properly in chains.

Hastur wanted to spit. As if it weren’t enough that the Dark Lady had been forced to leave the Horde behind by Saurfang’s treachery, they’d also gotten news that the freak had been _pardoned_. Illidari, fucking a human, broken out of prison by bluecoats, and _still_ let off. And on top of that, they’d had his toy in Orgrimmar itself, and Hastur hadn’t known till it was over! If he’d known—

If he’d known, he still couldn’t have done anything, not without far too much risk of being caught.

He’d just have to go to Dalaran sooner rather than later. The bitch would know something useful.

* * *

Michael had been sticking close to Makavi mostly to keep an eye on her, but she’d begun to enjoy the woman’s company for its own sake. Makavi had a sly, subtle sense of humour, and when she forgot to be angry with the Them she could be a lot of fun.

At the moment, however, neither of them was in a very good mood. Some very disturbing rumours had started filtering through the mill about events at Orgrimmar, and a large chunk of the Them had dropped out of sight—including, once again, Fallwater. At least this time Michael actually had something to pass along to Hastur.

Hastur...the man was a thug in a way Ligur hadn’t been, but he was still a useful source of information and Michael wanted to keep cultivating him for as long as she could.

She and Makavi had been prowling the docks and the Tradewinds Market—literally prowling, both of them in cat-form and stealthed when necessary—for about an hour when Michael caught a familiar scent. It’s Illidari; Mhorduna, not the blood elf, which was hardly a surprise in Boralus. But Elune knew Mhorduna was rarely far from Fallwater these days. “Well, look who’s here,” Michael muttered.

Makavi turned to look and pinned her ears back. “And he’s still playing with Ezra,” she said sourly.

“I want to know where they’ve been,” said Michael. “Coming?”

They had to be a little more cautious than normal; Illidari could often spot stealthed people, and besides they didn’t want to give themselves away by having someone who couldn’t bump into them. Even so it only took a minute to get close enough to hear the conversation; the Them were talking in normal tones, not trying to be quiet.

A draenei whose name Michael didn’t know—one of the few members of the Them who hadn’t been unfindable for the last ten days—was walking with Mhorduna and, sure enough, Fallwater. “—coming back the long way,” Mhorduna was saying. “What have we gotten in the way of assignments while I’ve been gone?”

The draenei offered him a list. “Ezra, would you? It’s been a long day,” said Mhorduna, and Fallwater took the paper and began reading. Boring, but at least there’d be some more tips to give Hastur.

Michael was starting to contemplate giving up on information gathering and going to get a drink when Fallwater read an assignment and added, “I could take that one.” She sat up a bit straighter, feeling her ears perk.

“You are going back to the garrison where it’s safe,” said Mhorduna.

 _Bullseye_ , Michael thought. Not only where they’d been hiding him, but that he was on the way there.

“Again?” said Fallwater. “You know I hate being there alone.”

Mhorduna stopped walking and pulled Fallwater a bit closer to his side. “I indulged you, taking you with me to Orgrimmar. It went well, but it very well might not have. Indulge _me_ , my dear.”

“Orgrimmar again,” said Michael quietly as she and Makavi backed away a bit. “I’m starting to think the rumours are true. Peace, or at least an armistice.”

“And if they are—what about Teldrassil? Are we giving up on our vengeance?” Makavi jumped up onto a crate. “D’you think I can pounce him and push him off the dock without him getting a good look?”

“No, unfortunately,” said Michael.

Makavi growled displeasure and shimmered into normal visibility as she spoke. “I suppose he doesn’t care that the _real_ elves lost their home,” she said, loudly enough that Mhorduna was sure to hear it. Michael sighed under her breath and let go of her own stealth as Mhorduna turned; you didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was glaring.

Michael yawned and stretched. It was very satisfying with a cat-spine. “What does it matter what he thinks?” she said. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

For a moment, Makavi glared back at Mhorduna—and then leapt off the crate and charged him, knocking him off balance on her way by. “Last one to the inn buys the second round,” she called. Michael rolled her eyes, and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thrall and Jaina are old friends.
> 
> Folks, I'm very sorry that this took so damn long. The writing muse hasn't been completely absent, but she's hard to pin down of late.


	52. Chapter 52

As they materialised in the garrison, Ezra couldn’t help asking, “Are you quite sure you’re alright? She nearly knocked you right off the dock.”

Mhorduna’s shoulders shifted in the way Ezra had come to recognise as the Illidari version of rolling one’s eyes. “I’m fine. I can handle worse than an unexpected fall.”

“Maka should have been more careful,” said Ezra. He didn’t think his attempt to not sound fretful was succeeding.

“I think Maka’s agitated because she’s tired of playing this part, and I can’t blame her,” Mhorduna replied. “At least she won’t have to for much longer.”

Ezra nodded but barely heard the last few words, his attention snagging on a guard as they passed. “I beg your pardon, has Crowley arrived?”

**Of course he hasn’t. There are still enemies to hunt in Orgrimmar. Why would he give up his fun for time with you?**

_Quiet, you_ , Ezra thought over the guard’s reply that no, Crowley wasn’t there. _War isn’t fun_.

A hand on his arm made him jump. **So nervous** , said the shadows, giggling.

“He’ll be here as soon as he can,” said Mhorduna. “He has work to do, and he’ll need to talk to his guildmaster at least. Let’s get something to eat and then we’ll see about sending the draenei to safety till things are dealt with. I won’t have them at risk for this.”

Ezra let himself be led, absorbed in his inner conversation. **So weak, so soft. Pretending to be a grown-up, as if being bait again is anything special.**

 _I am not bait_.

**Yes you are. You’ll just be drawing him in, it’s other people’s job to deal with him.**

_Stop it._

**How do you plan to make us? You _need_ us. And when it’s time, you’re going to let us play.**

Rather than retort, Ezra decided to focus on the plate that had somehow appeared in front of him, on the table he was now sitting at. Mhorduna seemed to be speaking, as well. “...so I’ll start.”

Erm, start? “You don’t need to wait for me to eat,” said Ezra hopefully.

From the way Mhorduna’s eyes flared, that wasn’t the right answer. He sat back in his chair. “You’ve been off since Orgrimmar, Ezra. What’s going on?”

Ezra laughed; the expression on Mhorduna’s face didn’t change but he forged on. “I’m fine. Peachy. Tickety-boo.” Mhorduna slowly raised one eyebrow. “Well, perhaps I’m a bit tired.”

Mhorduna still didn’t look convinced, and for several seconds he just stared. By dint of great effort Ezra didn’t start fidgeting with anything. Finally Mhorduna said, “Maybe you should get some sleep, then. I can handle the draenei.”

“Boss—”

“This plan is risky enough already. It’ll only be riskier if you’re not on your game.”

Ezra hesitated for a moment, nodded, and abandoned his plate untouched, remembering at the last moment to pick up his bag.

In his room he bolted the door and leant against it. **A locked door won’t save you. Only we can save you.**

“I don’t need to be _saved_ ,” he muttered. The shadows didn’t answer. Ezra sighed and set his bag down.

When he was ready for bed, he unsheathed his dagger and studied it for a moment. The jewel set in the pommel glinted, the deep red barely visible. Ezra set the knife on the mattress and covered it with his pillow.

 **Look at you, all grown up** , said the shadows, sly and satisfied. **We can have so much fun together**.

Ezra closed his eyes resolutely, and soon enough sleep found him.

* * *

Having a sin’dorei guildmaster meant that when Crowley told Mirimë about Ezra, at least she didn’t have to be convinced he really meant it when he used phrases like “the only person I’ll ever love.” She was hardly thrilled, and yelled at him a bit for not telling her sooner, but it wasn’t as if anyone, ever had been able to _decide_ who their One was.

He spent another day and a half running errands and playing bodyguard for the people on Sylvanas-loyalist duty before things calmed down enough that he could take a few hours off, and a few hours was all it was, just half a day. It wouldn’t have been remotely practical if he hadn’t had stones for both directions of the trip.

On Draenor it was nighttime when he faded into existence. There were people standing guard in the usual spots, but none of them were the draenei he’d come to recognise; instead they were members of the Them, in uniforms that mostly didn’t fit them very well. He supposed Mhorduna had sent the draenei somewhere safer until Hastur had been dealt with, a decision Crowley approved; no one wanted to discover they could come back—or worse, that they _couldn’t_ —by taking a poisoned dagger to the throat.

He exchanged perfunctory greetings with Mhorduna, who was ensconced at one end of the table in the main hall, on his way past. Wonder of wonders, Ezra had remembered to bolt the door and Crowley had to rap the secret brick to get in.

Crowley bolted the door again and divested himself of boots, bag, weapons and overtunic without lighting any of the lamps; he made a bit of an effort to be quiet because Ezra was a light sleeper at the best of times and the sheer anxiety of waiting for an attack helped not at all.

Ezra lay curled on his side. Crowley climbed carefully onto the bed behind him, wrapped one arm over his chest, and hid his face in the nape of his neck. He wouldn’t have chosen to spend his limited time sleeping, but on the other hand they could both probably use the rest.

* * *

Ezra drifted awake with the sound of someone else’s breath at his back and an arm draped over him. Its hand lay against his chest and he ran his fingertips over the tendons, feeling the long graceful fingers. They twitched under his touch. He smiled into the dark and reached under his pillow for his dagger to put it out of harm’s way. By himself there was little risk of tossing and turning—he was a light sleeper, but not a particularly active one—but the addition of Crowley opened out the possibilities considerably.

“I’m so glad you’re here, my sun,” he murmured, quietly enough to not disturb real sleep.

“Mmhmm, didn’t mean to wake you,” said Crowley, not very clearly.

Ezra sighed. “I didn’t mean to sleep. How long do you have?”

“Half a day. Unless Hastur shows his face.”

“Surely he can’t travel so quickly, even if he’s already been told where we are.”

Given their positions, Crowley’s shrug was more of a full-body wiggle. “I wouldn’t think so but it’s better to be prepared.”

“Well, he can’t get in here, so let’s relax.”

“Anything you like. I’ve been poking into people's cellars for the past two days, relaxing sounds like an _excellent_ plan.”

“I can’t have what I would like,” said Ezra. “You only have half a day.”

“We’ve both got jobs to do, but the war’s over now. Sylvanas is gone. Some people won’t like it but no one’s going to try to execute us.”

**It’s funny that he thinks that’s reassuring. It will never be over.**

Ezra ignored the commentary and shifted Crowley’s arm enough that he could wriggle over onto his other side. “Hastur is still free,” he said.

“Looking to fix that, aren’t we?”

 **He’ll still have loyalties that are more important than you**. Ezra declined to answer. He swept his thumb down along the line of Crowley’s jaw, and brushed it over his lips. Crowley hummed, a small contented noise, and said, “Hastur’ll be sorted soon.”

Ezra didn’t want to listen to the shadows’ opinion of that and fortunately he had a reliable distraction at hand. “Shush now,” he said. Crowley didn’t resist his gentle pull and they met in the middle of the tiny space between them. Ezra relaxed into it, relishing the feeling of how well they fit together.

Much too soon, Crowley broke the kiss. “Shush, is it? I don’t have to listen to you, you know.”

Ezra ran his fingers over Crowley’s lips again, feeling the smile that curved them. “In that case, what do you want to talk about? We could go on with your Common lessons, or start on Darnassian. Or Goblin. Or Nerglish.”

“Didn’t say I wanted to talk, did I?”

Ezra knew this game. He rolled onto his back. “Then enlighten me. What do you want, fiend?” He made no effort at all to keep the laughter out of his voice.

“Fiend,” Crowley repeated, in mock irritation. “After all I’ve done for you.”

“Oh, I can’t remember,” said Ezra, with all the innocence he could muster. He didn’t have Crowley’s knack for theatrics but disingenuous naïvety was a part he could play, second to none. “You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

* * *

Crowley made a production of tackling him—which was difficult, given that Ezra was already lying on his back, but it was after all the intent that mattered. “You’re a menace.”

Ezra’s arms came up to encircle him and Crowley felt a fraction of his normal wariness seep away. Surely nothing bad could happen while they were together. Rationally he knew the feeling was nonsense, but that didn’t stop him having it. Then Ezra wiggled happily and other considerations fled. “How could I possibly be a menace to such a—”

“Priest,” Crowley growled.

Undeterred, Ezra finished, “—brave hero?”

“Right, that’s enough out of you,” said Crowley, and kissed him.

* * *

Neither of them ended up getting much rest, much less actual sleep, but Crowley was hard-pressed to regret that. It had been all of two weeks, even slightly less, since they’d parted, but it might as well have been years, as if they needed to learn each other all over again.

They lay quietly as the dawnlight began to filter into the room. Crowley felt halfway to drunk on Ezra’s fingers combing endlessly through his hair, his limbs too heavy to be worth moving.

The pleasant stupor was broken at last by a knock. “Breakfast,” said Mhorduna.

“Ugh,” said Crowley.

Ezra sighed and said, “You should eat before you go.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Crowley repeated, with more feeling, and turned his face fully into Ezra’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go back to Orgrimmar, it’s terrible.”

Ezra’s hand stilled. “It’s where you’re needed, my sun, and besides, you don’t want to be a fugitive again. It would be terribly boring.” He moved Crowley gently aside. the better to sit up.

“Yes, yes, bring logic into this why don't you? I don't like prying into people's homes and asking questions about their motives. That’s the sort of shite Sylvanas would do.”

“Better you than someone who’d enjoy it, or take every little thing at face value,” said Ezra. “At least there’s no bounty for loyalists.”

“A bounty, now there’s a hideous thought.” Crowley yawned, stretched, and sat up. “You’re right, I should eat something.”

“Let’s go then,” said Ezra. He stood, got three steps towards the door, and turned back to the nightstand to retrieve his sheathed dagger.

“You’re learning. Sort of wish you didn’t have to.”

Ezra bent and plucked a wayward hair tie from the bed. “If I hadn’t joined the fight, I wouldn’t have met you. I call it a fair trade. Now can I help you with your hair? I’ll have to buy you a gross of these, they do keep getting loose.”

“Oh, and you had nothing to do with _that_ , did you?” Crowley shrugged. “Plain leather ones hold a bit better.”

“But they wouldn’t look as dashing, I’m sure. Now come here. You can’t go out with your hair like that, you’ll be the disgrace of the sin’dorei.”

“I’m already Illidari, priest, that’s as disgraceful as I’m going to get.”

“Nonsense,” said Ezra firmly, brandishing a hairbrush. Crowley bowed to the inevitable—not that it was any sort of chore—and let his hair be brushed and tied into a tail.

Food was just arriving when they reached the table; Crowley suspected Mhorduna of having had it preemptively delayed.

As they sat, he asked, “What’ve we heard from Makavi?”

“Nothing beyond what you heard in Orgrimmar, except that Michael will be away on ‘personal business’ today or early tomorrow. So if Hastur doesn’t know already, he will any moment.”

“I’m overjoyed,” said Crowley. “Suppose at least it’ll be over with.”

Mhorduna studied him for a moment. “Something else is bothering you—something besides this plan.”

“We’re not the only ones who can hide our true motives. I’m certain there are still Sylvanas loyalists in Orgrimmar, and that’s not even counting the people who don’t want the war to end.”

“Do be careful,” said Ezra, sounding fretful—though at least he was eating, so it couldn’t be too bad. “I don’t like to think of the danger you’re in.”

“I have backup for the loyalists, and as for Hastur...he won’t come for me first. He wants to hurt me, and that means getting to you.”

“If he thinks you two are still connected, yes,” said Mhorduna. “But remember that Michael seems to believe our act. She might have convinced him.”

“He’ll still come for me first,” said Ezra, staring at his plate. “Hurting Crowley isn’t the only reason he wants to hurt me, and besides that, I might have left even if Crowley didn’t want me to. I’m valuable as a pawn.” Crowley didn’t like the bitter twist Ezra put on the last word, but the middle of a planning session wasn’t the time to contemplate it.

“Is there any chance that you can get more time away? I want as many people as possible who might be able to spot Hastur,” said Mhorduna.

“I'm going to try. My guildmaster is a bit more willing to make allowances since I explained to her what's going on.”

“Good.”

All too soon the meal was over, and Crowley got reluctantly to his feet. “Get some rest, you need it,” he said.

Mhorduna nodded and offered his hand. “Elune light your path, little brother.”

 _Little_ , again. But protesting wasn’t going to get him anything besides more teasing, so Crowley just accepted the handclasp and said, “Don’t get killed.”

When Mhorduna had left, Ezra took Crowley’s hands. “Forgive him, my dearest, he doesn’t know, and he likes you.”

It took a moment for the light to dawn, and Crowley shook his head. “It’s the ‘little’ part, not the ‘brother’ part. But it’s no problem. I’ve had worse than a bit of teasing.”

Ezra laughed. “He isn’t teasing, either. Now I’m afraid that I have to chase you away. It’s my turn to keep watch and you’re very distracting.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t do anything to Hastur without me.”

The air around Ezra thickened into shadow with unnerving speed and Crowley only just managed to not snatch his hands away. “We cannot guarantee that, Illidari. If you want to help us kill him, be quick.”

“We need him alive, and there’s already been too much killing by half.”

Ezra’s laugh this time held strange harmonics. “Not for our liking. Now go, we need to keep watch.” The shadows retreated, as if they were sinking into Ezra’s skin; Crowley waited a moment to see if they were going to come back. He appreciated Ezra’s shadows, he really did, they were protective, but they were still damned unsettling.

When nothing happened except Ezra’s grip on his hands tightening and relaxing, Crowley sighed and bent for a kiss. “Be careful,” he said softly.

“I will be vigilant. You be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Really? Mhorduna’s against the wall behind you.”

“Yes, priest, and it's his own fault if he has to watch something he doesn't want to see.” Crowley was, truth be told, getting quite tired of people attempting to eavesdrop on him, even if only for amusement.

Ezra swung them around so he could pin Crowley against the table and said, “In that case, I’m going to kiss you.”

“Oh no, not that,” said Crowley.


	53. Chapter 53

Michael could smell alcohol from yards away, even over the manifold other odours of the Underbelly, and rolled her eyes. As if the streets full of youngsters celebrating the ‘end’ of the war weren’t annoying enough.

Sure enough, Hastur was visibly drunk—Michael spared a fleeting thought for wondering how Forsaken managed that—and she reminded herself firmly that he was still useful as a source of information before she spoke. “I have news.”

“ _Bad_ news, just like all the other news. Want a drink?” He waved at the rickety table, which contained a bottle, an empty glass, and a full one.

“Keep your drink for when there’s something to celebrate,” said Michael. She took her usual chair. “Now do you want to hear this or not?”

Hastur made a disgusted noise. “Anything’s better than that damned freak wandering around Orgrimmar as if he owned the place.” He bypassed the full glass to pick up the bottle and drink directly from it; what little temptation Michael had felt to indulge evaporated.

“I know where they’ve been hiding Fallwater.”

Hastur put the bottle down and stared at her. His drunken gaze sharpened a little. “He’s going to _suffer_ this time,” he said. “And I’ll take a souvenir to Crawly. See if he can wail any louder than he did in prison.”

This sort of talk made Michael’s skin crawl, but she needed Hastur until she could drum up some other contact. “Some of the Alliance’s outposts on Draenor are still active. One of the Them had control over a garrison, and passed it to the guild as a whole. They take people there to recover—or hide. Two guesses which one Fallwater’s doing.” The man was a prime example of the type Michael couldn’t stand. One-lifes, it only made sense and you had to feel sorry for them, but no one with an immortal soul should’ve been as disgustingly timid as Fallwater.

Hastur grinned at her. “The little rabbit’s gone to burrow on Draenor, has he? Where’s this garrison?”

“Northeast Shadowmoon Valley—far side of the continent from where your people are set up, but I trust you can make arrangements,” said Michael, and offered the paper with more precise information. Hastur snatched it from her hand. She entertained a momentary fantasy of tearing out his throat. “After this—King Wrynn is making noises about a formal treaty with your people and I'm afraid he's going to be able to push it through Greymane, though Tyrande might yet give him trouble. I don't know how much good we're going to be to each other.” The fighting wouldn’t completely stop; it never did. But the lessening of hostilities would be a decent excuse to drop Hastur when she found someone else to make an arrangement with.

“Peace won’t last,” said Hastur. “The Dark Lady will make sure of it.”

Michael kept her opinion of Windrunner firmly behind her teeth. “Nothing to do but wait and see,” she said instead.

“The priest first, anyway. So that I can watch Crawly’s face when he sees what I’ve done to his _lover_ ,” Hastur sneered. “As if anyone could love scum like him.”

Michael shrugged. People let their hearts rule their heads all the time and Elune might know why but Michael certainly didn’t. “Fallwater’s taken up with his guildmaster now, and he’s Illidari too. He must like it for some reason. Who knows what’s going through his head?”

Hastur barked ugly laughter. “My dagger is what’s going to go through his head, but he’ll suffer first. You want a souvenir?”

“Not my thing,” said Michael firmly, making quite sure disgust didn’t cross her face. “Just get them, both of them. They’ve been annoyances long enough.”

“Your loss,” said Hastur. “See you on the field, then.”

Michael gave him a few minutes to get well clear before leaving herself. Even in Dalaran, there were people in the streets celebrating, people who’d quite obviously never seen a real fight in their lives, and she hunched into her cloak to avoid them.

* * *

The picture had been made with a gnomish gadget Mhorduna had yet to bother to learn the name of, but he had to admit it was good quality. Both of the figures were recognisable, despite the inadequate lighting of Dalaran’s Underbelly. “Well, Hastur surely knows now,” he said aloud.

“Like to stick a dagger through _his_ head,” Gnoklu grumbled. “The way he was talking, boss, it grinds my gears! He’s as hinky as a left-handed screw.”

Mhorduna didn’t know why or how screws were supposed to ‘hand’ anything, but he felt fairly certain he appreciated Gnoklu’s meaning anyway. He tapped the picture. “This is what we needed. Whether we catch Hastur or not, we can turn this over to Shaw.”

“Red’ll know how to handle getting it to the Horde,” said Gnoklu.

“Red?”

Gnoklu shrugged elaborately, making his moustache flutter. “Back in the Isles he and I hung out in the same place sometimes. He didn’t want his name used, so people called him Red.”

“I meant, why Red?”

“Oh! Right, you wouldn’t know. He’s redheaded.”

“Ah,” said Mhorduna, bemused by the idea of Master Shaw having a byname. “I should go let Ezra know.”

“Righto. Is his little secret going to be here?”

“If he can. Get some rest, you’ve earned it.”

Mhorduna went in search of Ezra, taking the opportunity to check on his guild members as he went. No one found their borrowed equipment very comfortable, but they were all making the best of it. The three other Illidari members of the Them were the only ones wearing their normal gear, patrolling in a sloppy fashion that he’d have told them off for if it weren’t exactly the point.

In the keep, Ezra sat in the main hall. He had a platter on the table before him and a book in his lap, but he was leaning back in his chair and apparently dozing, chin on his chest. “Ezra,” said Mhorduna, “Gnoklu says Hastur knows. You’re going to have to stay ready from here on.” He tried not to actually snap, but worry made it difficult. Ezra of all people shouldn’t be taking this _casually_.

But then Ezra raised his head and Mhorduna’s hands twitched in the direction of his weapons. Shadows skated over Ezra’s eyes, concentrated there but they radiated to the walls—he hadn’t seen them at first because they were _everywhere_ , filling the room like water in a cup. “Don’t worry,” they said. “We’re ready. We’re waiting. Sit with us, Illidari.”

Mhorduna shivered, and had to assume the shadows saw it. He’d never seen a priest let go of the shadows like this, but he doubted that much good would come of it. “We need Hastur alive,” he said, forcing his voice calm.

“We’ll let him get to us, as you asked. We’ll make him confess. We promise.”

It did not escape Mhorduna’s notice that there was no mention of Hastur still being alive at the end of the process, but he couldn’t think of anything to be done about it. “I’ll wait over there,” he said, waving at a chair against the wall.

“Good. You won’t be in our way.” Ezra, or whatever was in charge of his body, stood and picked up the platter. He moved to a chair with its back squarely facing the main door, and settled back down.

Mhorduna took a seat of his own and shadowmelded, though at least the shadows he used were the purely natural ones.

* * *

Hastur rested through the first part of the night in the woods, an hour or so away from the Alliance base. Around midnight he re-mounted; the bat was happy to fly in the dark. Though it wasn’t really very dark, not with the huge Draenor moon taking up so much of the sky.

He swung out over the bay to come in from an unexpected direction and landed near the edge of the cliff that fell down to the water. There was no wall, not even a guard; he thought its situation was remarkably stupid even for the Alliance. Aside from the existence of flying mounts, he could have climbed that cliff given time.

The bat was reluctant to leave without him, but it would find its way and he’d paid plenty to ensure it would be transported back to the real world.

To reach the walls of the garrison proper he had to pass a cluster of small buildings huddled around a cave-mouth; it seemed to be a working mine. Hastur took the indefinable step sideways that would hide him from normal sight, in case of guards on the strategic asset.

The gate into the fortress was open. Hastur shook his head in disbelief, but he didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. He thanked the Dark Lady for his luck, and for making his enemies so unbelievably stupid, but he still made a point of walking carefully and on the far side of the opening from the lone guard. Good habits were important to maintain for the principle of the thing, rather than out of any fear this bluecoat was more competent than any of the rest seemed to be.

Inside the walls he encountered a very, very slight roadblock in the form of a wandering freak—he refused to glorify the desultory stroll with the name ‘patrolling’. It was the first thing he’d seen the bluecoats doing that wasn’t completely moronic, but the Illidari’s ability to see through his stealth wasn’t going to help at all when they only had eyes on any given area every quarter-hour.

The whole thing was insultingly easy, so much so that he decided to listen when the freak stopped to talk to one of the guards, and was rewarded with a mention of the target’s name and a casual wave of the hand—not at any of the good candidates for a barracks, but at the keep, which apparently held limited living quarters.

The building had been constructed to withstand attack and the windows were too narrow even for him, but he found a side door and made short work of its completely conventional lock. Inside he spent several minutes discovering a kitchen and various storage rooms, but then he hit the main hall.

The room was gloomy, lit by a few candles that seemed to struggle to hold back the shadows. What little light they provided fell on a long table ringed with chairs, and in one of them—with his back to the door!—sat the priest. Alone, his attention focussed on something on the table before him, armed with not so much as an eating knife. It was like he _wanted_ to be caught.

Hastur loosened the laces that held his bag of stonedust shut—the stuff was expensive, but Hastur didn’t want the target to miss a moment of this—and eased into the hall. His soft shoes made only the smallest noises, easily ignored, as he padded up behind the chair.

He dumped the pouch over the priest’s head. Once he breathed it in it would only be a few seconds before the paralysis took hold, but just in case Hastur wrapped one hand over his mouth to stifle any last cries. “Crawly’s going to miss you,” he hissed in the priest’s ear. “But don’t worry—I’ll send him a few pieces to remember you by.”

The light flickered, stronger for a moment, as the target stiffened in shock. He shook his head enough to dislodge Hastur’s hand, but instead of screaming for help like one might have expected he said, “Leave him alone, it’s me you want!”

It was cute, in a way, to see the priest trying to pretend he was anything more than a rabbit, than _prey_. “I don’t give a damn about you. But Crawly does.” The target wasn’t going limp as fast as he would have liked; perhaps there hadn’t been quite enough stonedust for his weight.

“Oh please, leave him alone,” the priest whined. “I’ll do anything, only let him be.”

Ugh. The last time Hastur had heard the man sound so pathetic, he’d been bleeding to death. “Shut it,” Hastur snapped. “Sniveling isn’t going to help.” He hauled the priest to his feet and turned them to face the doorway.

Which had a blood elf standing in it.

* * *

“Let him go,” said Crowley conversationally, “and I’ll take you straight back to Orgrimmar.”

Hastur recovered from the shock pretty quickly, by Hastur’s standards, and a sneer crossed his face. “Crawly. Nice of you to not waste my time searching for you.” Under cover of the words he shifted his grip and a dagger flickered across the space between them; Crowley raised a glaive to parry—and a shield sprang up, deflecting the blade. It hit the floor with a clatter and Crowley kicked it to the far side of the room.

Ezra took a step away from Hastur, who released him with the jerky movements of someone not in control of their own body, and said, “No. You play with _us_.” From all sides the shadows condensed, wreathing around Ezra sinuously.

In Crowley’s experience it was _never_ a good sign when Ezra started speaking in plurals, no matter what else was happening; that and the density of the shadows made Crowley distinctly nervous, in a way that having a dagger thrown at him hadn’t. Hastur, meanwhile, was starting to realise how thoroughly he’d been suckered, which in typical Hastur fashion meant that he was getting angry.

“Priest, keep in mind that we need him alive and mostly in one piece,” said Crowley, keeping his voice calm by main force.

From a nearby chair Mhorduna faded into normal view, a pair of manacles in one hand. Crowley imagined it had been a stressful few nights, sitting vigil with only Ezra’s shadows for company, but if so it didn’t show in his voice. “Good work, Ezra,” said Mhorduna.

Hastur made an abortive attempt to draw his other dagger but the shadows tightened around him and he fell to his knees with a pained grunt. “Yes, good work,” said Ezra—or rather, not Ezra; Crowley heard it in all four of his languages simultaneously, which had to be the shadows’ work. “Now we’ll take our reward for it.” Suddenly he had his own dagger in his hand and Crowley had no idea where he’d been keeping it; he took a step towards Hastur.

Alarmed, Mhorduna said, “Let’s just get these on him and arrange to get him to the Horde.” He didn’t get far before the shadows blocked him.

“We aren’t finished,” they said. “We’ll leave him alive. We’ll even leave him in one piece, if he tells us everything we need to know. But first we’ll have our _fun_.”

From the floor Hastur barked out a laugh that had no actual humour in it. “Little bunny doesn’t have this much spine, Crawly, he’s far gone.”

“Give me those,” said Crowley in Common, holding out his hand in Mhorduna’s direction without removing his attention from Ezra.

“But—” Mhorduna began.

“ _Now_.” Mhorduna dropped the restraints into his hand and Crowley placed himself between Ezra and Hastur, breaking the line of sight. “Priest, stop it. You’re not like this.”

Hastur sneered, “Who do you think you’re talking to, freak? He’s not there anymore. At least now he won’t have to stand there crying while you handle all his problems for him.”

“The _priest_ took care of the orc. We told you it wasn’t the Illidar you wanted.” Crowley was trying to decide whether it was worthwhile to debate the fine point of who had actually inflicted the fatal damage when the shadows said silkily, “And why are you protecting him?”

By now Ezra was floating, his feet a few fingers above the floor, with disturbingly coherent ribbons of darkness radiating from him, and the whole thing teetered on the edge of a very high cliff. “I’m trying to protect _you_ ,” said Crowley in Thalassian, Common having inexplicably decided to use the same word for one person or several.

“We are protecting him. We said we would. Aren’t you _happy_ about that?”

“Torturing a prisoner isn’t protecting anyone,” said Crowley, and then—it was a calculated risk, because the shadows were still restraining Hastur and he thought it unwise to allow that to continue; he turned, dropped to his knees, and grabbed Hastur’s wrists to snap the cuffs around them. For good measure he pulled Hastur’s other obvious dagger and skated it away across the floor without paying much attention to where it went.

The entire operation took only a few seconds; Crowley popped back to his feet and turned and Ezra was _right there_ , his eyes wide and wild and a grin on his face that was in no way connected to reality. Crowley swallowed. “Please don’t. Please don’t use him to do this.”

“What do you offer in return? We deserve some fun and you’re keeping us from it.” The point of the dagger slipped across the surface of his cuirass; it was probably leaving scratches but Crowley had not one single fuck to give about that.

“Haven’t we had this conversation?” He still wasn’t clear how much of what the shadows said came from Ezra, consciously or otherwise, and asking about it in calm moments hadn’t produced anything but confusion on his part and frustration on Ezra’s as the concepts failed to transfer. “As you wish. I’m not bargaining. I’m saying _please don’t_.” The light in the room flared and faded.

“Those words are not for us, Illidari.”

“Then what do you want?” Crowley paused, considered. “What do you want more than you want to hurt Hastur?”

“We want to play. We want freedom.”

“I can’t give you that,” said Crowley, and took a breath. The shadows didn’t try to resist him when he took Ezra’s hand to set the edge of the dagger against his own neck. He tilted his head to draw the skin taut beneath the blade and let go. On the floor, Hastur had taken to snickering. “Promise you’ll let him go afterward and I’ll stand still for whatever you want.”

Mhorduna—who Crowley had frankly forgotten about—smothered a protest.

Ezra’s dagger was less a knife and more a conduit for directing energy, and as such it had a number of qualities that would be impractical in a weapon meant for physical fighting; it was, for example, considerably more than sword-sharp. Crowley felt the skin part, a tiny sting. From the feel of it he’d done worse to himself shaving. But suddenly the light in the room sprang back to normal and all the coherent streamers of shadow whirled back out of the air, sinking into Ezra’s skin like waterspouts in reverse. As they vanished entirely he dropped the knife and staggered, and Crowley caught him by the elbows before he could slump over entirely. “Can you deal with that?” he asked, jerking his chin in Hastur’s direction. “I’m going to need a few hours before I can leave for Orgrimmar.”

He didn’t pay much attention to the noises of Mhorduna hauling Hastur up, being concerned with trying to work out what exactly Ezra needed, but when Hastur spoke it was in Common. “ _How_?” Hastur demanded. “They should _both_ be dead.”

With a shrug that Crowley could _hear_ , Mhorduna replied, “I’ve stopped asking.”


End file.
